The Lord of Bones
by OmeganQueen
Summary: There are bad guys in the Witcher world who get their due, and there are bad guys who get off scott-free. After falling through a portal, the Punisher's about to drive home one single message; Justice might be blind, but she ain't deaf, and she's sending her best man to deal with them. ( Rated M for obvious reasons )
1. The Lonely Hamlet

**'tis another idea I want to put into writing, especially since I saw that there aren't that many Punisher/Witcher crossovers. I love Netflix's depiction of the legendary gun-toting vigilante, and Jon Bernthal's portrayal of Frank Castle, so I decided to let loose on the impulse to write my own take on the character. And ya know, the world of Witcher's not exactly that bad of a deal! Of course, a disclaimer- don't own the Punisher or the Witcher franchise, just my OC's. I'll take my inspiration from Netflix's version, and only a little bit from Frank Castle MAX's take on the Punisher. ( I love that comic series, seriously, look it up )**

**Although I'm a little excited, I can't put a definite answer on how often I'll update this. Sure, if the impulse comes back then bam! a chapter I shall write.**

**Enjoy!**

**}!{**

The moon peeked out through the safety of the darkened clouds, scared, as though what happened down there in that blackened earth could harm her.

The corpses, piles and hills of them, were scattered across the streets of that lonely, forgotten county. To the one who killed them, it didn't matter where they came from or who sent them. To the people scared shitless in their locked up shacks and houses, they knew pretty well who they were. Cartel thugs, hired killers and kingpin lieutenants- the kind that run the prostitution rings, drug traffickers and slavers.

The kind that attracts just the right kind of attention from the Punisher.

But something was wrong. Usually he walks off of this stuff, more or less intact. It should've been alright, he knew how these things went like the back of his hand.

Frank hissed as the pain flared up in his midsection. No, nothing here was alright. He made a mistake somewhere, got sloppy, or for once the scumbags got lucky and finally hurt him. And they hurt him bad. Three bullets had entered his stomach and went out his back. Armor piercing rounds, penetrated the vest and out his back too. He could feel the rounds pressing against his skin where they had exited from behind.

He was bleeding, more than what was necessary. The Punisher leaned against the cracked and shot up plaster wall, and slid down to settle among the still-warm corpses of the drug lords he had killed minutes before. Back-up wasn't coming until later, they had brought the full force of their little empire down on this town to deal with him once and for all, so their manpower's pretty exhausted after the shoot-out today. But the enemy he faced now wasn't a thug armed with a fully loaded AK-47, or a cutthroat with a shotgun.

No, just his own mortality.

Frank hung his head in defeat as he felt the blood trickle out of his battered trappings and rent clothes, pooling into a large red puddle around him. Without medical aid, he would bleed out in minutes. His hands, already weakening from his injuries, did their best to staunch the flow that he might be bought a little more time. He couldn't die here, there was too much for him to do. Too many fuckheads running around the world spreading pain and misery to the downtrodden innocents, getting off scott-free as though justice didn't exist.

Too many fuckheads that needed _punishing_.

"Fuck it..." Frank muttered. He was tired of it all. Thirty years he had combed the streets and outbacks of nearly every country on earth. Thirty years, and like weeds, evil men sprouted from every corner and shadow no matter how many he would pull out. He was tired, so so tired. This day, the very day he hated would come, had finally come. The chore of killing had worn him out. _Someone else would pick up after me, _he would lie to himself, _Someone else would take the mantle of the Punisher. _He wasn't like the lucky few who were immortal, even through the many encounters that should've killed him, he was still human like the rest of them. "...this day was bound to come."

Yes, someone would eventually replace him, for the world has a habit of fucking up someone in nastier ways than he'd care to count. Someone was bound to snap, and embrace that dark desire he had gone into the day his family was killed in front of him.

But if he was going to die, it wouldn't be from bleeding out in some shot-up bar in Mexico, it would be out there in the desert with a big fucking bang! The Punisher picked up his guns, twin .45 Colt pistols that had served him well through his long years as a vigilante, and staggered out of the bar to face whatever would come through the door.

It was oddly bright, that light coming through the door. Frank wondered if his wounds took a toll on his head, that he'd go hallucinating so quickly. He'd had some of those injuries before, he guessed it worked a little quicker as one gets older. Sure he was well into his fifties, didn't look like it with a very active lifestyle, but age was age. There wasn't getting around that.

Yeah, he was getting sloppy. Best to end it now while he had a little fight left in him. He could hear the rumble of a car engine and the crunching of wheels turning against dirt. They've come for him at last. He'd go out, not with a whimper, but with guns-a-blazing. A fitting end for the Punisher.

Then the light enveloped him, and Frank felt himself tumble into empty space.

* * *

The Punisher went face-first into the water, the impact slapped him awake and he fought to right himself up before the water poured into his lungs and drowned him. That kind of end would be embarrassing.

But how the hell did he get into water all of a sudden? He hadn't lost consciousness just yet, a thought that he began to doubt as he gained the water's surface. Did he black out somewhere, kept stumbling forward and fell into some river close to town? Impossible, there wasn't a single body of water in the town or anywhere for a hundred miles of it! The water was real enough, that wasn't a hallucination.

His wounds were real too. Those three holes in him hurt like hell, the cold water wasn't enough to quench the fire burning inside him. He was alive, still pulling through what should've been his last night on earth.

His mind was fogging up, and soon his body would follow. Frank made it a point to get clear of the deep end and onto whatever shore he could reach before his consciousness would fail and he'd drown. His clothes, with all that gear stuck to him, soon grew heavy as the water seeped into every fiber and pocket. It was like hauling bricks through mud, and Frank slogged onto shore, fighting to stay afloat the whole way.

Once there, he took a second to clear his head, then looked around.

All he could see and feel on under his fingers was soft green grass, no desert sands from all around, and the ruined town in Mexico was gone! It felt real, but Frank still wondered if it was a dream. "What the hell?" The world's messed up, magical beings and all that shit, Frank didn't really pay them much heed since their involvement didn't really make much of a difference with the scumbags running around the ratholes. But they existed, that bit helped him accept that these kinds of strange things happened to many people.

Things like portals. If so, he hated portals, even though this one might've saved him to fight another day.

Frank groaned and climbed the small hill, away from the river, with his guns still in his hands. He gained the hill's crest, and his eyes widened as the moonlight shed its luminance over thevillage beyond. Not the one he had just gone out of. It looked like something drawn on some artist's canvas, a picture of a medieval village complete with a wooden windmill and an open pasture filled with cows. Frank stifled a cry of agony as he hunched over, but swore under his breath just the same.

He needed help, and that town over there was his best chance of getting stitched up. He hoped there was someone close enough to doctor his wounds, and he hoped he could find someone fast. So, surmounting the _punishing _grip his wounds had on his weakening body, Frank staggered forward and into the pasture. He headed for the town, ignoring the lowing cows and barking sheepdogs as they moved out of the way. Frank kept his mind focused, feeling it begin to slip like sand grains through his fingers.

Just one step at a time, a steady pace or else it was a dirt nap for good.

He got into the village and leaned against a wooden post of an unfinished fence to catch his breath. A woman's muffled screams could be heard nearby, and Frank paused to listen. It was a familiar noise, one he heard too many times for him to count. A throaty laugh coming from a bad man's mouth, some excited chatter from his companion as they would go through the many ways they could hurt the young lady. The woman pleads, then yelps as a loud smack silences her cries for mercy. A dull thud, where she had fallen.

Horses stood where they were tied close, and their riders had dragged her off into the direction of a nearby barn. Nobody came to her aid, and even through all that noise that should've drawn attention...

Nobody came, and that pissed him off. It pissed him off more than he was already right then, with all those bullet holes biting against his stomach and back. His wounds would have to wait. Someone had to be taught a lesson, a permanent one.

Frank rounded the corner and stuck to the shadows. There were no lights there, for the moon hid hers and the lamps were out. Just one torch, held by one of the four men dragging the woman into the barn. The torchlight flickered, dancing over the smiling visages of the victim's would-be rapists. Like wolves licking their chops, savoring the meal to come, they loomed over the frightened woman and started undoing the belts of their trousers. They didn't see the tall, menacing figure stalking their every move from behind. Too late, Frank already got close.

They were men in full-plated armor, complete with silly-looking black helmets adorned with frills that looked like Captain America's old headgear. Frank didn't even go for his guns, as much as he would love planting a slug in their heads, and snapped the neck of the man in the farthest rear. Moving quickly, in spite of his wounds, the Punisher whipped out his combat knife and plunged it into the back of the second.

The armor made a loud scraping noise as the blade bounced off, and the soldier roughly shoved Frank back as he instantly went for his sword.

_A sword?_ Frank thought to himself, _Did I go through a time portal or something?_

The soldier growled and charged forward, leaving his companion to awkwardly scramble up from the woman he had pinned down on the haystacks. The fourth one ran as soon as he saw the Punisher's first victim die, and disappeared into the night. Frank caught the wrists of the man as he closed the distance, a mistake on the soldier's part, and his knife went for his throat. The gorget plating was thin, and the knife went through to pierce flesh. A gurgling noise erupted from the wound, and the soldier's grip on his weapon went slack, dropping the sword as he clutched at the knife left in his neck.

"I'm going to fucking kill you for that!" The survivor cried out, surprising Frank with an accent thick with cockney-broguish flavor.

The Punisher's fist collided with the man's nose, soundly breaking it as the soldier moved with the economy of energy of a hibernating bear. He went down on all fours, hands covering his face as he moaned like a stuck pig. Frank picked up the sword dropped by the second man and raised it high, ignoring the biting agony in his belly as he did so.

"One batch, two batch." Frank growled, chopping through metal and into flesh. Blood spurted out like a fountain as the flesh gave way, exposing the bone to the light of the torch as its flames caught fire on the surrounding hay. Eyes in the dark gleamed as the flames ate at the haystacks, then onto the wooden beams and doors. Thevillagers had gathered to investigate, hearing the cries of the now-dead men, and now witnessing the brutal execution of another at the hands of a dark-clad stranger.

The head popped off like a cork on a wine bottle, spilling thick red blood like wine to smear across the dirt. Frank dropped the sword and stared at the mess he had made, as though proud of his work. "Penny and dime."

Then he dropped to the ground in a heap.

* * *

Dawn had risen over the village, the first rays shed light over the half-burnt barn and the bloody remains of the Nilfgaardian soldiers, and over the crowd gathering at the square to discuss the matter at hand. The stranger who had stumbled into the deed as it was being done had been brought into the house of Maleon, the village blacksmith. It was his daughter, the maiden Anaia, whom the Nilfgaardians tried to rape the night before. And it was she who took in the wounded stranger who had saved her and nursed his injuries as best as she could.

Now the only problem left to the villagers, and the one that shook them to the core, was the fact that the men the stranger killed were Nilfgaardian soldiers. The village was just trying to get by, never causing trouble for the Empire or whatever petty king tried to lord over them. They just wanted to be left alone.

Unfortunately, that also meant they turned a blind eye when the soldiers began having their way with the women of the village. It was common for men to turn into vile beasts when no one could stop them from whatever suited them, and it was more common for soldiers who had the strength of their sharpened steel and the blessing of their commanders to do as they pleased with any village they've come across on enemy soil.

The village lay near to the Great River Yaruga, and that meant it was no man's land.

"What good would killing him do?" Someone argued when the thought to do away with the wounded stranger was spoken.

"He damned this whole village for what he did to those men!" Someone argued, "Now the wrath of the Empire is upon us!"

"How can you be sure?"

"I saw four men drag Anaia into the barn! Four! He killed only three! The last one escaped!"

That last sentence drew an angry response from the blacksmith Maleon, who had emerged from his house to join the discussion. To say that he was livid about the fact that someone was watching and did nothing for his daughter would be a monumental understatement, "And you did nothing?! You watched as my daughter was about to be raped?! And now you want to kill the one man in all this village with the fucking balls to defend an innocent maiden's honor?!"

Ogen, the weasel of a man who spoke, whined. "What was I supposed to do against four Nilfgaardians? I'm a woodcutter for fuck's sake, not a swordsman!"

"Say another word to me and I'll hammer your balls up to your stomach you'd be retching your own seed!" Maleon thundered, "Begone, craven!"

"You'd best do it quick, while sane heads prevail." Someone whispered to the alarmed woodcutter, who turned tail and fled the scene, realizing where his big mouth had gotten him.

"Now then." Maleon spoke to the crowd, "I know what you're thinking, and I feel the same way. The shadow of the Empire looms over us, but we must be strong. This man who saved my daughter did the right thing, and we cannot allow foreigners to push us around just because they can! Speak no more of ill-will towards my guest."

"They will come for us, Maleon!"

"And we will be gone by then." Maleon replied, "We had dwelled in this patch of land for too long anyway. The Empire would trample on us worse than any king, for they are the kind bent on conquest. I urge you to pack up and move out within the week, for that is what I will do. I shall not stay for the wrath of Nilfgaard, for they would not hear of our side of the tale anyway if we tried. To be frank, this day was bound to come anyway. Go home, hold your families close, and flee."

"But where would we go?" A woman wailed.

"North, to where the wind blows cold and where the grass is still green." Maleon said, "That is where I will go, to plant my family's roots once more, and far from the Nilfgaardians and their wars." When he was done speaking, Maleon returned home, and the crowd dispersed. The blacksmith heaved a heavy sigh of relief as soon as he got through the door. Closing it down with a loud creak, the old man headed upstairs to where his daughter was nursing the wounded man. He passed through the open threshold and leaned against the doorpost, watching as Anaia skillfully stitched the wounds and cleaned away the encrusted red smears.

Maleon took a look at the man's belongings, piled on the table next to the bed. There was the coat, made of soft and well tanned leather, ripped and torn in some places from repeated wear and tear. A belt with pockets filled strange black bars that contained little copper-colored sticks, and two even stranger weapons sheathed into the hip portions. The stranger had a knife, one of extremely well crafted make. Maleon marveled at how symmetrical the edge had been shaped, and how well balanced it was to the hand. Most knives he had to forge himself were heavy like cleavers, but this one wasn't a butcher's tool.

It was made for killing.

He set the blade down and ran his hand over the vest he had taken off the man so his daughter could better dress the wounds. A bone-white skull glared at him as he looked the front over. Three holes had pierced through the lower part of the vest, which Maleon assumed were made either by very thin spears or arrowheads tipped with steel points.

That man was very lucky to be alive, and even more so to be able to move around like he did last night.

"No fever, or labored breathing." His daughter said as she swept a stray strand of her golden hair out of the way, "He will live to see tomorrow." Anaia looked up at her father with those kind blue eyes that resembled closely her late mother's own. "Have you talked them down, Papa?"

"It wasn't easy." The blacksmith shrugged, "Ogen had them riled up, they were ready to tear down the door and come for the man. Damned coward, he watched the whole thing last night too, and did nothing!"

"I know." Anaia said as she shook her head, "I saw him watching, even yelled out his name as they dragged me into that barn. I cannot understand how he could just stand by and let them do that to me."

"Way of the world." The man in the bed said, startling both the blacksmith and the woman next to him. "Evil men triumph, when good men do nothing."

"Ah, you're awake!" Maleon exclaimed, "I'd thought your injuries would've kept you asleep for at least a day, but I guess you're stronger than you look. How do you feel, sir?"

"Like someone took a knife and slit my chest open!" The man replied as he struggled to get out of bed. A curse exploded from his lips as his wounds bit down hard on him like a mad dog, "Fuck!"

"Now see here, sir!" Maleon gently pushed him back down, "Don't go making my daughter's work harder for her! And also, watch your mouth around a lady."

"Mnmh!" The man grunted in silent agony, "Where am I?"

"A village in the Sodden province." Anaia answered, preparing a healthy bowl of broth made of herbs and spice to help ease the pain and strengthen her savior's vitality. "Drink this, it will help."

The man gagged once, but downed the broth hungrily. "God, it tastes like an ashtray!" He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, his dark eyes looking back and forth wildly like a confused hound. "Did you say Sodden? What's Sodden?"

"The province, sir." Maleon explained, "I'm not surprised you haven't heard of us, this village is not exactly on any noteworthy part of any map. Unfortunately, though, your actions last night just reminded the Empire of Nilfgaard we actually exist."

"Nilfgaard?" The man muttered, and his eyes met the blacksmith's. "Saved the girl from a world of hurt. Those scumbags had it coming, and they weren't going to let her live after what they were going to do to her."

"Oh don't mistake my words." Maleon said, "I am grateful, as any father should. But the fact remains, we have the Nilfgaardians breathing down our necks. Now, I've convinced the whole village not to take action against you and instead pack up and leave before trouble comes for us."

"We're leaving?" Anaia gasped.

"Yes, my daughter." Maleon answered, "That's what I wanted to talk to you about before our guest was about to wake up. Set the wagon and pack up only what we need, food and supplies and some clean clothes. That will do, for the others will only burden us down." He then referred to the wounded man, "And he's coming with us."

"I can take care of myself." The man grunted.

"Not with those injuries you're not." The blacksmith declared firmly, "You are my guest, you're my responsibility now. I suggest you cooperate so everything runs smoothly from here on out. Like it or not, those wounds won't heal any faster if you force yourself. Now, all you need to do is rest and regain your strength. Is that understood?"

The man glared up at him like a petulant child, but acquiesced eventually. "Uh-huh."

"Do you have a name?"

The man turned his head to the wall. And just as Maleon thought he would have to go for a silly nickname, he answered. "It's Frank. Frank Castle."

**}!{**

**So, to be clear, the timeline's shortly before the events of the First Nilfgaardian War against the Northern Kingdoms. Not necessarily with the events of the first Witcher game, but lore-wise anyway.**


	2. Two Graves

**}!{**

The cock crowed twice at the crack of dawn. The sunlight touched the little village near the River Yaruga, revealing it to be empty, for the villagers had taken heed of the blacksmith's suggestion and fled northwest to the mountains. Maleon thought it best to follow the caravan to the common road until they reached the path taking them to Cintra, one of the ruling city states of the province. There, they would be safe, and the craft of a blacksmith would secure them a spot in the city quite well.

The shadow of the Nilfgaardian Empire was upon them, and the idea met little contest when the armies of the Black started closing down upon them in the distance. Anaia kept close watch over her charge, her savior, as he rocked painfully on the unsteady wagon. Poor Frank had to steel himself for the long ride, as the wheels would suddenly jerk up from every stone that came their way. Every now and then, a muttered curse would erupt from the wounded ex-marine's tightly pressed lips as the sudden shaking would jar his painful body from side to side.

At the very least, Anaia kept him entertained with her singing and engaged in the occasional small talk as the days went by. Frank Castle wasn't one for the latter, but he appreciated the woman's attempts to make him comfortable. Anaia would change his bandages, clean his wounds, and cook him some of that delicious broth on the stew. Also, in spite of his many protests, she fed him herself. There was something about her cooking that sparked a memory from a past long buried, and Frank didn't care if the memory hurt. She was good at her job, being his nurse in all but name, he had to give her credit where it was due.

"Where are you from, Franque?" Anaia asked.

Frank ignored the mispronunciation of his name and turned his head away, refusing to give too many details. "Not from here." He wasn't on Earth anymore, that much was certain. Frank didn't really care for the details, he just simply accepted the fact that he landed on a foreign world as it was. At least people still speak English over here.

Anaia took a hint and changed the subject, "It won't be long before you can get back on your feet. I've seen your wounds, they no longer look as glossy as before. That's a good sign, you're well on the way to recovery."

"Good, means I can finally get off the wagon." Frank grunted.

Maleon echoed the sentiment, pointing out that with all their cargo taking up space in the wagon, there was only room for two. "Agreed, it's about time I rode and you walked!"

Frank let a wry smile form on his lips at the jest. He then got up to limp back to the wagon, "Where'd you pack my things?"

"I folded them inside the box, the red one." Anaia replied.

Frank donned his shirt and the vest with his signature skull symbol as gently as possible, for every brush against his chest sent wave after wave of agony coursing through his body. The Punisher put on his coat and holstered his guns. Frank took note that in this world's medieval period, the guns were way too advanced for the era and were the most powerful tools of destruction at his disposal. That would mean too that they were not as expendable as they had been back home. He had four magazines of .45, counting the ones inside the guns themselves. There was no way he'd be able to replace the precious ammo supply once spent. And if he was trapped in here, he would have to spend them only when he absolutely needed them.

So, the Punisher set his mind on arming himself with something less wasteful and as practical as possible. He would need to do so, seeing as there was no way he would be getting back to Earth any time soon.

Frank looked down and noticed Maleon staring at his guns strapped to his thighs, their eyes met and the old man remarked thoughtfully. "Curious looking weapons, those."

"Yeah." Frank shrugged, pausing to rest on the wagon. "Hey, listen. You've done enough for me these passed few days, so we're square. Once I've felt I'm ready for it, I'm going to make my own way."

"Wait until you've healed enough for the journey." Anaia said, genuinely concerned for her charge's welfare. "Once you're out there, there won't be anyone for miles around to help you if your wounds open up again."

"I know that." Frank replied, "I think I'll stick around for a day or two, but I can't be around long."

"Why so eager to leave?" Maleon asked curiously.

Frank rubbed the back of his neck, and stared at the horizon thoughtfully. "People tend to get hurt when I'm around for too long. Being on the move is like second nature to me, works better that way for everyone, especially for nice folks like you." The man shook his head, "I learned all that the hard way, you see."

Anaia and her father exchanged looks, and the woman spoke kindly to her savior. "Master Castle, we're not pressing you for anything. We're just concerned, that's all. If you feel that you need to leave, you're absolutely free to do so. But let me repeat myself, please don't push yourself too hard. Your death is on us, please understand that."

"Mmh." Frank grunted, "One day or two. No more."

* * *

The little caravan reached the crossroads, and many separated to go their own way, leaving only a small band of travelers to accompany Maleon and his daughter to the path up to Cintra. True to his word, Frank bade the two goodbye and left as soon as his wounds had healed enough for him to go it alone. Unlike most people, Frank's purpose in life wasn't too hard to understand or pursue.

He needed to be around people, not to interact- socially speaking- but to uproot any scum that preyed on the weak and innocent. There wasn't much to do with his life, now that his first purpose had been snuffed out of him the day they killed his family. There was just his hands, the blood, and the cold corpses of the people he killed.

It was grim, dark and ugly. But even in that he found solace, some semblance of purpose. He had it back on Earth, it wouldn't be difficult for him to have it here.

As Frank walked the muddy, stone flecked path, he took a moment to take a piss in the woods nearby before setting back on the path opposite of Cintra. As he finished, however, the Punisher heard above the still rustle of the leaves blown by the passing wind, the clamor of battle and the screams of dying men. A single cry, of a very familiar voice, echoed through the hills and disappeared into the valley beyond. Frank's eyes widened, and his heart hammered against his chest.

That voice was Anaia's!

Frank was off like a rocket back the way he came. The Punisher ignored the thistles in his path as he thundered down the dirt road with the speed of a maddened horse. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his legs burned as he pushed hard to cover the distance. He came at last to the horrific scene of a skirmish between the armies of Nilfgaard and the sorely lacking armies of the North.

Cintra was unprepared, to say the least, against the better equipped, better trained veterans of the Black. It was a slaughter, with little casualties on Nilfgaard's part. The main body had moved on to secure a strategic location, leaving stragglers to loot the dead and slay the survivors. And there, caught in the crossfire, was the little caravan Frank had just left.

Or rather, what was left of it.

Frank approached the slaughter grounds, feeling a bit lightheaded as he took in the sprawled bodies of the villagers, and of the old man Maleon. Beside him, with three arrows through her back, was Anaia.

The poor thing struggled to get to her feet, but collapsed painfully back on the ground after every try. Her silent tears trickled down her cheeks as her eyes clenched tight from all the pain shooting up and down her spine. Finally, she let out a whimper as Frank tenderly picked her up and held her in his arms. Anaia uttered a gasp, then two, as her eyes opened to search desperately for any hope in her savior's face.

She found none, save for a burning hatred in his gaze. Flashes of a dead woman and her dying children raced through his mind, held in his arms as they clung to the fraying strands of life. Flashes of his family, torn to shreds by a mob hitman's gun.

"F-Franque?" Anaia breathed.

Then, she was still.

And Frank moved. He laid the woman gently back on the ground, drew one of his guns on instinct and rose up to kill every Nilfgaardian soldier left in the aftermath of the battle. His bullets found their marks, and Frank did not lower the gun until the full load had been used. He then holstered the gun and yanked free a fallen shortsword from its resting place on a horse's belly, then he started hacking at the stragglers too stupid to run.

The Nilfgaardian looters were too surprised to act at first, and by the time they did, Frank had already killed six of their comrades in a single streak across the battlefield. The marksmen drew their crossbows, took aim, and fired at the larger man. Crossbow bolts and arrows worked differently than bullets, kevlar was flexible enough to strain against slugs but were flimsy in the face of sharp points. It wouldn't stop a knife, it certainly wouldn't stop a steel-tipped bolt, and so Frank ducked in between the trampled wagons of the destroyed caravan.

He was fast, but the pain of his sore spots impaired his speed, just enough that he couldn't avoid every shot the Nilfgaardians made. A bolt struck Frank in the shoulder, and though the adrenaline pumping through his veins kept him from losing momentum, that didn't stop him from feeling the biting agony of a steel bolt digging deep into flesh and bone. "Fuck!" The Punisher roared like an enraged bear, and out of anger drew his gun, shooting down the marksmen from behind cover.

Another magazine emptied, he was losing precious ammunition fast.

Frank took a second to clear his head, and he put his gun back where it belonged. He cursed himself for acting out of impulse, the bullets were meant for emergencies only. This instance didn't count as one. Frank looked down and saw a dead man's hand gripping on to a bow, and on his back was a quiver full of arrows. A grim smile formed on the Punisher's face as he got the idea. He picked up the weapon, stuck the sword onto the dirt, and nocked an arrow.

There was only one or two times in his life where he used a bow and arrow, Frank knew that wasn't enough to make him a marksman for that particular weapon, he hoped what little he knew would be enough to get him through the battle. With that in mind, the Punisher swiveled free from cover and took aim. He shot his first arrow, luckily hitting the first of the rushing swordsmen in the stomach, but not enough to pierce the thick armor covering his torso.

Frank slowed his breathing, nocked another arrow, and took aim as he drew the tight bowstring up to his cheek. He remembered not to grip the bow so tightly that his aim would be true, and then released. The next arrow hit the man's gorget dead center, and pierced through to the back of his neck! Frank rejoiced silently, nocked another arrow, then drew to hit the next target.

He never got the chance, because the Nilfgaardians had already closed the distance.

The Punisher dove back, dropping his bow and quiver to fetch the shortsword stuck to the ground. Frank yanked it out of the dirt, faced his enemies with a low crouched stance, then dove forward to get under the reach of the Nilfgaardian soldier next to him. His longsword was slow, and it passed overhead, narrowly missing Frank's face as he slid across the mud. The shortsword sliced through the thin plating beneath the heavier upper plating covering the man's chest, and drew blood. The Nilfgaardian yelped, clutched at his stomach, and staggered back.

Frank rose up, planted his feet firmly as he skidded to a stop, then buried his sword through the man's mouth and out the back of his head. He swiveled around just in time to parry the third soldier's swing. Steel met steel, and the men struggled to push each other off, waiting to see who would falter first.

Frank had control of his body, the soldier didn't. He swept his leg right under the soldier's own, throwing him off balance, and gave him the chance to finish him off. The Punisher flipped the man's weapon free from his hands, then cleaved his head in half! The blow set an ache in Frank's arms, but he ignored it in the spur of the moment. More soldiers were coming from all sides, and Frank just lost it as he fought desperately for his life.

_Never corner a wounded animal. _Wise words, often unheeded.

Frank gasped for air, as if he had just taken a dive, and looked around. Nobody was left alive for miles around, he had emerged victorious!

But he never felt that bit of satisfaction. The anger in him no longer burned like an inferno, it merely smoldered like dying embers. Frank turned back to find the bodies of the people who took care of him, good innocent people who wanted no part in the violence and died just the same. The Punisher found a shovel in the wreck of the wagons, and proceeded to bury Maleon and his daughter.

He carried their bodies into the woods, found a good clearing, then set to work. He dug two six feet graves to ensure that no animal or man would dig them up, never caring for the hours he toiled or the biting agony of his wound in his shoulder. They deserved better, far better than this. It was the least he could do for all they've done for him.

When he finished, Frank leaned backwards, sweat pouring in rivers around his face, neck and back. He took a knife, two stones, and proceeded to carve some words on them. He put Maleon's name on the first, and Anaia's on the other, writing _loving father _and _loving daughter. _These he set atop the freshly dug graves, then got up to say some words.

He opened his mouth, but no words would come out. No eloquent speeches, no tearful eulogies. Frank looked back at the battlefield, gazed down at the bodies of the soldiers he had killed, then decided he had done enough. No speech or eulogy could match action, and the Punisher had balanced the scales. He had _punished _the men responsible for the murders, and now all that was left was to hunt down the commanders who gave the order.

They too had to be _punished._

And so Frank returned his sorrowful gaze back to the gravestones, and sighed. "You two rest. I've got work to do." The Punisher walked away, dressed his wound, and took a moment to gather the weapons he could use in the one-man war he was about to start against the Empire. One might call it too ambitious, the plan forming in his mind, for Frank had decided to climb that ladder, follow the chain of command that started these atrocities.

The people who died, the innocents who were slaughtered, in the campaigns waged by kings and emperors to expand their territories or to feed their ambitions, their cry for justice often went unanswered. Frank was here to change that. His heart burned with renewed vigor, and he reveled in the renewed purpose.

The chain of command, from the lowliest commander up to the nobles that signed the orders, to the very emperor who sat upon that high throne, Frank would kill them all. It might take a long while, maybe his whole life, but Frank swore that those injustices would meet their due.

And woe betide the guilty when the Punisher walks the earth.

**}!{**

**A/N**

**Hello there, dear readers! I'm glad this idea's well received by you, and I'm excited to hear what you think about it all, and also any suggestions to make it better. I'm not perfect, neither are my stories, but the effort to make it as close as possible to that is there.**

**Till next chapter, au revoir!**


	3. The Orphans of Blackrock

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Smoke rose like a blotch of ink spilled from an overturned inkpot over a paper sheet, slowly but surely climbing up the heights of the noonday sky. Frank looked up, smelled the familiar stench of burning flesh upon the wind, and doubled his pace in the direction of the burning town. Another helpless human settlement, grounded beneath the heel of the Nilfgaardian Empire. Frank's mood soured as he took in the atrocious scenes around him as he walked the streets of the ruined town, as he took in the charred remains of townsfolk burned alive within their homes and slain guardsmen hacked to pieces all over the cobblestone floors.

There were no bodies of Nilfgaardians on this battleground, most likely dragged away when the main army had moved on.

"How the hell do they move so fast?" Frank muttered. It had been nearly five days. He was on the right track, but then again, the longer it took for him to reach his intended target the more innocents were caught in the crossfire between the Empire and the kingdoms of the North. As he looked for a way out of the ruined town, Frank's mind began to fill itself with dark thoughts of murder, imaginings of every painful form of death upon his enemies. The outcry of the downtrodden tugged at his soul, and Frank could neither ignore nor silence them.

As he walked on, Frank noticed a man standing alone in the town square. There, the Punisher took in the corpses of the town small council, their bodies hung at the ramparts of the town hall. At the sound of his combat boots scraping dirt, the man turned his head to lay his eyes on Frank. He took in the large man with a suspicious look on his face, gazed down at the glaring skull on his vest and then on the hand that reached for the shortsword hanging at his belt. Frank eyed him down as well. He was just the same height as he, broad shouldered, and weathered down by time on the road. A long, patch-work overcoat covered the studded leather armor he wore. A long, straight, single-edged sword that resembled a katana, was drawn halfway through its sheath. Cold steel-grey eyes glared out at his through the shock of unkempt black hair that was shoddily tied into a small ponytail.

The man got into position, he stared long and hard at Frank before relaxing his arm. "You a looter?"

"No." Frank replied, "Saw the smoke, came to investigate." He, on the other hand, remained with his weapon drawn and ready to strike when needed. "You a Nilfgaardian?"

The man shook his head without any hesitation, and spat, showing his spiteful regard for the Empire. "Far from it. Fuck the Black Ones. I'm from Kovarth, unofficially. I kind of drift from here and there." He motioned his head in the direction of the hanging corpses, "In case you're wondering, no, it's not them who did that either, not directly anyway."

"Care to elaborate?" Frank said, slowly sheathing his weapon.

"It's the bandit kings." The man replied, "Cintra's army's running back with their tails between their legs, withdrawing protection from the lands around here. Nilfgaard swoops in, and leaves pretty much everything defenseless against the more ruthless opportunists." He then spread his hands outward to refer to the ruined town around them, "And here stands the results. Poor sods never stood a chance. They killed the old and diseased, took the young women, men and children as slaves to sell off to the markets."

"Bandit kings?"

The man nodded, "Yeah."

"And what are you here for?" Frank asked, not at expecting to hear a straight answer.

The stranger's boot scraped loudly against the dirt as he turned away, "Looking for a friend of mine that they took from me. I looked over the corpses, didn't find his, so that'd mean he's still alive." He looked back at Frank, "And you?"

"Hunting Nilfgaardians."

The stranger smiled, and pointed north. "There's thousands of them heading that way. Good luck killing them all."

Frank pursed his lips, looked around him at the bodies of the townsfolk, then made a decision. Nilfgaardians were not the only evil men in this world. There would be plenty to find among cutthroats and thieves. Nilfgaard wasn't going anywhere, but these bandits might, assuming that the stranger's word was true. No, it was too much to pass up, Frank needed to see it done. "Wait, I'm coming with you." No evil men must escape alive, they all needed to be _punished._

The stranger smirked, "Ah, a kindred spirit? Odds would be improved in our favor if we work together."

Frank frowned as he fell in step with the man, "Killing evil men is the only similarity we share, nothing more. Someone has to remind these people you can't do without any consequences. Once we're done, we part ways."

"Good, makes things simple." The man said, "You can call me Kell, short for Ten Men Kell."

Frank ignored the impulse to chuckle at the strange name, "My name's Frank, Frank Castle."

* * *

The sun once again dipped low into the horizon by the time the two warriors reached the bandits responsible for the massacre of the town. Frank's mood darkened as they peered across the thick foliage hiding them from sight, his eyes taking in the young men and children locked up in rusted cages all over the camp. Opposite of them were the women, elder and maiden alike, imprisoned in small huts. He realized what those huts were for, as every now and then the bandits would walk inside to check on their merchandise and sample the wares.

For a bandit camp, it looked a lot more organized. Makeshift towers of chopped lumber were erected in a tight circle around the camp, and walls of sharpened sticks stuck out like the quills of a porcupine. They had the natural shape of the land to their advantage, situated upon a slightly elevated patch of dirt that they could see trouble coming for miles away. Kell and Frank had to crawl through the dense underbrush just to get close enough to survey the battleground they would soon fight on.

Sneaking in would be difficult, to say the least. Guards patrolled the perimeter with little intervals in between, making their window too small to seize unless they came up with a better plan. A head-on attack would be suicide, or so Frank thought. Kell smirked as his mind fell on the same idea, "Do you know why they call me Ten Men Kell?"

"No, and I'm not sure that's important in any way to this." Frank scowled, "Why are you bringing this up?"

"Oh, but I beg to differ." Kell replied, "It is very important, and I know it will make all the difference in this little adventure of ours. But I think it would be better to show you. Now see here, I'm going to walk up to the bandits' front gate and stir up the hornets' nest a little, just enough to widen the window for you. I want you to go in, take out the guards, and find my friend. I'll come join you when I'm done."

"You're gonna take them on by yourself?" Frank said, arching his brow. It wasn't because he was concerned for the man's welfare in any way, but because if this whole venture ended with Kell getting himself killed, Frank would have to deal with fifty to a hundred angry bandits with only his meager supply of weapons and the handguns he was quite hesitant to use.

"Trust me on this, I know what I'm doing."

"Right." Frank growled, opting to go with this wild idea since he was out of his own. "So this friend of yours, what does he look like?"

"Can't miss him, he's a dwarf." Kell chuckled, "He goes by the name of Lenny, a smart one even more than his kin could be, once you've freed him he'll be able to help come up with a way to deal with the rest of the bandits fast and clean."

Frank had no idea if he meant 'dwarf' as midget or an actual magical creature, if it was any of the latter he would trust that this idea would have a happy ending, but if it wasn't...

"Go, time's a wasting. I'd like to get started before those bastards get their hands all over every one of those lasses." Kell said, drawing his sword free from its sheath and twisting a curious looking ring on his finger. He caught Frank's glare, "You still with me?"

"Yeah yeah."

Kell left the safety of their hiding place and ran up to the front gate, immediately catching the attention of the guards posted there. "Hey, you cocksuckers! Over here!" His taunts were followed by the titter of bloodthirsty cutthroats and scum as they reached for their weapons and set out to deal with the intruder. Frank stealthily crept up closer, using the bushes and leaves as cover as he made his way across the long distance between their hiding place and the bandit camp. As he did so, he watched as Kell make a bloody demonstration of his fighting skills. It resembles something close to kenjutsu, an iconic style of the Japanese martial arts, preserved by kendo enthusiasts and traditionalists alike, and frequently used by the Yakuza Frank had faced in his long years as the Punisher.

Kell moved impossibly fast for a normal human being, so fast that he was able to deflect the arrows that came his way like they moved through water! Frank smirked in admiration, Kell would prove to be a very good distraction indeed. He hoped it would last for as long as he needed, and his pace doubled as he gained the distance, dropping over the low wall and into the camp grounds.

Frank drew out his bow and nocked an arrow, keeping low as he rounded the bend to get behind the archers firing from their towers. There were six of them, too busy trying to pick off Kell to see him. Frank seized the opportunity, and fired at the one farthest from the other five. The man uttered a strangled gasp, fell to the wooden deck soundly and alerted the others to Frank's presence. The Punisher had nocked another arrow before the alarm was sounded.

"An intruder in the camp! Someone take him down!" A voice cried out from further down, prompting the Punisher to move quickly as he dispatched the other archers to allow Kell some breathing room.

The swordsmen came second, half diverting their numbers to take on Frank and half for Kell outside. Frank's companion grinned as the bandits swarmed over him, not even leaving a wide berth that could've bought them a few more minutes of life. He closed the distance, his razor-sharp weapon sliced through thin cloth armor and opened cleanly cut gashed across exposed bellies, throats and wrists. Blood splattered across the green grass, warm dead men fell and decorated the hillside. Kell moved in to join Frank, knowing there were more of those bandits inside.

The Punisher discarded his bow and the empty quiver, having spent the last of his arrows trying to thin the little marauder army to a smaller number. His training kicked in, and he used the combat knife to deadly purpose. He grappled, broke bone and crushed faces wherever he went. So brutal was his killing spree that the bone-white skull on his chest became smeared with thick red gore. Frank smelled the distinct copper scent of blood, and it stuck to his nose. He ignored it, going far to kill every last one of the bandits and rescue Kell's friend.

He found the dwarf deep into the camp, inside the bandit leader's tent, tied by neck with a long length of rope that allowed him enough room to move around but not too far. There was a desk nearby, full of scribbled notes and elixirs of various chemical compounds. Kell's friend was no taller than Frank's chest, and seemed old in years. His hair had receded to reveal a bald spot in the middle of his head. A long beard made short by braiding hung from his face like a piece of cloth on a tanner's beam. He didn't look like he was roughed up in any way, which confused Frank as to why he was here in the first place, not that he went willingly judging by the looks of that cord around his neck like a leash. "Lenny?"

The dwarf looked up, putting down his quill and adjusting the heavily tinted spectacles hanging above his nose. "Yes?" The dwarf gulped when he saw Frank, all bloodied up and carrying a nasty looking dirk in his hand. "Are you here to kill me?"

Frank cocked his head to the side wolfishly, "Why? Did you do something wrong?"

"Look out!" Lenny cried, warning Frank of the bandit king creeping up behind him. In a flash, the Punisher whirled around and caught the large man's hands as he moved in to slash at him with a wicked cleaver-shaped sword, dropping his blade in the process. The two men strained against one another, but Frank knew how to fight dirty, and he leaned back to deliver a nasty headbutt to his assailant's face.

The bandit king staggered back, hand covering his face as he held his broken and bleeding nose. He growled out an incoherent noise, and then recomposed himself to fight better. He had some training, Frank could see that, but it would never be enough- he was better. Frank picked up his knife, circled the king as he looked for an opening. This was a closed space, a sword of that length was not a good choice.

But before Frank could show the bandit king the error of his ways, Lenny had reached for one of his elixirs and threw it spitefully at his captor. The glass container struck the ground soundly, shattering so violently that the unstable chemicals within it flared up in one big ball of fire that blasted the bandit king to a dozen pieces of charred, quiver meat! Frank recoiled in surprise, shook off the ringing in his ears that came after the explosion, and found himself smiling at the ingenious little man's timely intervention. "Thanks."

"He deserved it." Lenny said, pulling up the rope for Frank to cut. "Would you kindly, good sir?"

Frank grunted and loosened the noose around the dwarf's neck. Presently, Kell arrived to deliver the good news. "There were about forty men in this camp." The man said excitedly, "Took two men to stir up all hell and kill them all!" He turned to his friend, clapping the dwarf on the back. "Hey there, Lenny! Told you I'd come for you, didn't I? Kept my word, I did!" Frank wasn't focusing much on the exchange of the two friends, he was staring in disbelief at the arrows sticking out of Kell's body that should've killed him right there and then.

Why and how the hell was he still alive? This world no longer operated on the same rules as his, Frank knew that and so he took a few things in stride, but this was on a whole other level.

Lenny smiled at Kell, going back inside to gather his belongings and the research notes he had on the table. "I was beginning to lose hope, to be honest. These men saw value in me, but that wouldn't have lasted very long. It's good that you came when you did, otherwise I would've run out of excuses to keep them from killing me."

"You were researching explosives?" Frank asked. Clearly this world was in the late medieval period, almost in the pre-industrial age when gunpowder was invented and became a valued commodity. But if this was so, why the hell weren't there any guns yet, or cannons for that matter? His interest piqued, Frank asked about the dwarf's discoveries, hoping to learn more that could help him in his war against Nilfgaard.

Lenny could not explain everything at the moment, stating that they should find a safer place to move. He owed his savior much, but the bandit camp was not the place to talk everything over. The three of them headed out, only to find the would-be slaves gathered around the tent to meet with their rescuers. Frank looked them over, pity showing in his otherwise stoic face. Twenty five good strong lads, and ten young girls, all ranging from the youngest of ten to the eldest of fourteen. In comparison to the teenagers of his world, these were bigger than their age should've been, and from all that trauma they experienced earlier in the week, it seemed they were yanked out of childhood sooner than they should've.

The damage was done, there were no children here in the bandit camp, not anymore.

The eldest girl approached Frank. This woman looked roughed up, bruises lined her beautiful young face from cheek to neck where her tormentors had gripped her throat. What they had done to her was enough to break most women, but this one was one of the stronger ones, she would not break. Frank saw that all too familiar burn in her eyes, the same hatred that smoldered in his heart. Visions of Anaia plagued Frank's thoughts as he looked on her face, all he snuffed out to focus on what she was saying. "Who are you, sir?"

"I'm Frank Castle." The Punisher replied, "These bandits will not hurt you again."

"My name's Tilera." The woman's bright green eyes glared at the Punisher, "My brothers, sisters and friends, we want to come with you."

Frank knew where this was going, "You're not going to do that." His voice was firm, but gentle. "You're going home."

"Home?" Tilera asked quietly, the tears starting to well up in her eyes. "Where is home? That burning ruin in the valley where our mothers and fathers lie for the ravens to feast on? There is nothing for us there, Master Castle."

"And you think you'd have something by coming along with me?" Frank said with a disapproving frown.

"Yes." The woman surprised the Punisher with her next words. They weren't spoken by a naive girl, it was almost like she was possessed, by the same spirit of vengeance that frequented Frank's own body. "We are orphans, Master Castle. We have no home, no family to go to. The bandits, the Black Ones, and every one of those evildoers- they took it all from us. We saw how you fought them, and we want to learn. Teach us how to kill, Master Castle, teach us how to make sure that these people would never hurt another child again. That is the only thing left for us."

Frank took a deep breath then let it out slowly, he rubbed at the stubble on his chin and walked away, thinking long and hard about his answer.

For the longest time, nothing, not even a single inner monologue sparked in his head. He was empty, Frank couldn't think about even taking these kids along on his dangerous and often self-destructive path. But this Tilera girl, she was right in so many ways, and it scared him. This would scar them forever, turn them into monsters. But if he was the one in charge, they would never prey on the innocent.

They would instead, be an extension of him. _Punishers _like him.

Frank never had to do any of that back home. He had only his guns, weapons capable of reducing whole armies into nothing. In this world, there were only swords and the hands that went with them. He realized then the foolishness of his plan to take on Nilfgaard by himself, without those weapons fit for the job. But then, if he made an army of him, trained by him...

He wouldn't need bullets.

Frank turned back, looking intently at every one of the orphans of Blackrock. He sighed, then looked at Tilera again. "You want to kill monsters, Tilera?"

She nodded.

"Can you ride?"

She nodded again.

"Then fetch some horses, I'm taking you kids with me."

**}!{**


	4. Rite of Passage

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_Journal Entry: Day ? Addendum; Middle of Nowhere..._

_This journal shall serve as a replacement for my lost notes prior to my capture and enslavement in that damned bandit camp. I don't wish to reiterate every word I've written in the past, so a brief introduction should do. My name is Lenicord Dunston, or better known as Lenny to my small circle of friends. In great confidence it is safe for me to say that I'm a man of science, the kind willing to push the boundaries set by naysayers- a dreamer, and a visionary. That trait, of course, tends to land me in all kinds of trouble, and recently caused my aforementioned enslavement. My latest project, involving the perfection of my experimental formula- based off of the pre-existent Stammelford's dust- had earned its attraction from the local bandit king, whom I had the great pleasure of using as an impromptu test subject._

_No matter, I've taken a separate record of the results, which were nothing short of explosive- ( pun naturally intended ). Steps should be taken to stabilize the formula, as I've noticed from the remains of the detestable creature._

_I've moved my workplace to a more preferable site, thanks to the efforts of my savior and unofficially appointed guardian, this strange man named Franque Castle. Upon rescuing me and the captured orphans of Blackrock, Mister Castle took great pains to finding sustainable housing for all of us. I agreed to the idea of tagging along for the moment, seeing as how dangerous the province had become in these dark times. A few days were spent hunting for supplies and in search for the place, and no sooner had we reached the seemingly impassable foot of the Amell Mountains south of the Yaruga River that our eyes met the ruins of an abandoned citadel that once belonged to one of the former prominent houses of the stagnating kingdom of Sodden. I'll admit I've never seen something as remarkably well preserved as that antediluvian tomb, which worked well for all of us. There were lodges fit to house more than a hundred people, complete with stone cots that could be made comfortable with a few fur sheets or a mattress. Then there was the castle itself, the home of the late lord of the duchy._

_It was situated with its back against the tall mountain wall surrounding the citadel like a natural barrier. All over the hills bubbled hot springs, indicative of volcanic activity, something I found to my great elation. I would have all the raw material and ingredients necessary for my research!_

_Though time had weathered down the place, from the look of things I'd say it wouldn't be all that difficult restoring the relic._

_Mister Castle claimed the ruins and cleared the creatures dwelling within, with the help of my friend Ten Men Kell, who accompanied our party because he had little else to do. In his own words, "There seems to be always something to kill when I'm around this guy.", he said concerning Franque. Took a while, and a lot of work, but we got our castle. I set up shop in one of the less dusty rooms of the high tower, seeing as how the seclusion gave me all the space I needed, and then wasted no time continuing where I left off. I knew, and still do, that my skills and tools would be called upon by Mister Castle, and definitely sooner than I would expect. I'm still debating whether or not it was a mutually beneficial idea to stay under his protection, but whenever I find myself in doubt I had only to think about that harrowing experience I've had with the outlaws, and that usually was enough to keep me agreeable._

_Now, onto that matter. Mister Castle is not a native Northerner, it shows in his accent, mannerisms and the way he carries himself. He's a damaged man, it doesn't take an expert to know that either. The tension in the air is palpable whenever I'm around him, and I'm only too happy he directs that anywhere away from me, and I pity the poor sods who'd earn his ire. The usual questions circle my mind whenever I go through my business, sit and dine in that shabby longtable with the young ones; What's his story? The answer wasn't something I wanted to know, not really, so I usually snuff out the thought before I could make the mistake of acting on it. I'd be satisfied leaving that mystery for the foolhardy, for only they would poke at the sleeping bear._

_More days passed, and the extra hands provided by the lads had helped move the rubble and clear out the dust, moss and ash from the halls down to the cellars. Old hearths were rekindled, and the kitchens were once again put to use. The old women, the very few who survived with the orphans, saw to the laundry and the cooking. Life went on, more or less than usual- I'd never call what Mister Castle did to those children anything of the sort._

_I was just about leaving my workshop one day to dispose of the remains of another failed experiment when I noticed the lads and lasses standing in the courtyard with Mister Castle supervising them in some form of martial arts training exercise, something of the kind one might see in a military camp, also the kind that Ten Men Kell seemed to enjoy watching. My friend beckoned me to join him at the balcony to witness how Mister Castle would demonstrate his abilities and strive to have the young ones learn from it. The first day wasn't so successful, for those children were brought up to be farmhands and shepherds, not warriors. Mister Castle resorted to whipping them into shape, not literally speaking of course, and took advantage of the orphans' determination- the one gift they had to offer, and what would become their greatest trait. There were these running exercises, lifting and wrestling, and when the time came that he felt they were ready, he began teaching them how to use a knife properly._

_Yes, not swords- knives. Of all the weapons in the large arsenal ( weapons scavenged from the bandit camps ), he would choose knives._

_I overheard him say ( and one I found to be one of my favorite sayings ) "swords and spears have all the reach, good for slashing at your enemy, but not so good at stabbing. That would leave your enemy alive, he'd get lucky, but with a knife you can close the distance." then he'd twirl that exquisitely crafted knife on his hand while grinning, "There's no luck there. I'm going to teach you how to kill quickly, because in a fight there's no such thing as 'savoring' your kill- that kind of thinking's going to get you killed."_

_I'm surprised the old women made little effort to object. Perhaps they've taken to Master Castle as their lord, all but in name?_

_One of the girls, the one called Tilera, soaked up all that knowledge like a sponge. She impressed us all with how quickly she learned Franque's techniques, demonstrating a natural affinity for the art of combat- but one in my opinion can only be gauged properly when she gets her first kill. One can train so well in life and just as easily falter when the moment of execution presents itself._

_I knew not exactly what Mister Castle plans on doing with these children, and when asked I was left even more perplexed at his answer._

_He looked at me with those smoldering brown eyes and said, "They will be Punishers."_

* * *

Tilera hissed as the needle pricked her thumb. She brought her finger to her mouth just as the point drew blood, then continued sewing up the piece she'd been working on all night. Pieces of grey cloth, stitched onto nightmare black, forming a mask that when worn, showed the grim face of death. In the light of the fire, it would become the visage of a ghost. Fear, as Master Castle taught her, is a powerful tool. When the guilty see her new face, they would know then that judgement was coming, and that critical moment where fear paralyzes them she would have her window to strike.

Tonight, she would undergo her rite of passage- her first kill.

But before then, Tilera would craft her armor, a suit of black studded leather just barely a size larger than her. Her boot heels were fitted with sharp spurs, not for horse riding, but to act as makeshift weapons in a pinch. Master Castle taught her hand-to-hand combat, something he called 'Mu-ay Tay'. The training itself was hard, and her mentor was an even harder instructor. But Tilera was not a quitter, the harder her master was with her the harder she trained, and she pulled through. Besides, she'd been through worse.

Now, all she needed to prove was to herself that she was ready for the life she had chosen.

The life of a killer, a vindicator.

"What are you doing?" The gruff voice of Frank Castle asked. Tilera glanced up to his shadowed form at the doorway, and noticed a sort of disapproving look on his face. Or perhaps, his face was permanently etched that way?

"Making my face." Tilera replied, donning the mask. Frank blinked twice as he stared at the girl's craft, the skull was just like the symbol he had painted on his vest, looking at it troubled the Punisher as he realized that the moment she embraced the meaning of that symbol had come. Tilera smiled beneath the mask, "Does it make your skin crawl, Master?"

"Take it off, now." He said firmly.

Tilera's smile faded as she did as commanded, she looked up at the man and asked, "Why? Have I done something to offend you?"

Frank's lips tightened as he gauged carefully what he was about to say. He had gone down this path, to back out now would be hypocrisy and all his efforts to make righteous killers out of these young ones would be for nothing. The Punisher sat down close to Tilera and spoke to her, not as a master to a student, but as a father correcting his child. That kind of talk sounded foreign to his own tongue, for Frank had almost forgotten how to be one. Tilera faintly saw him struggling with it, but had her focus elsewhere.

"Master, you said that fear is a powerful weapon, just as deadly as a blade." The girl said. "I crafted this mask because of what you taught me."

"Tilera, that skull means more than that." Frank breathed in deeply, and looked her straight in the eye. He told her what he had learned in those long years he spent as a vindicator, as the Punisher. "To use it as a means to merely spread terror alone disrespects its purpose. Unlike most symbols, I took this one up because it's like a double-edged sword. One strikes fear in the hearts of the guilty; and the other is to remind the innocent that there's always someone watching over them, and that they would never have to fear the wicked." He took the mask out of her hands and held it up for her to see, "Unless you understand this, you're unworthy of my symbol."

There, he said it. He claimed the symbol once more.

"I...I understand, Master."

"Do you really?" Frank asked, just to be sure. The issue wasn't one to be taken lightly. To do so would do something to the girl's psyche, and not the good kind. Without the cause, she'd just be another murderer.

"That is why I asked you to teach me, and all of us." Tilera answered, "Because I would not have those evil men hurt another innocent. I know now what the symbol means. I will not disappoint you again."

"Hmph." Frank grunted, tossing the mask back to Tilera. "Good enough."

The two rose up, with Frank leading his protege to the stables outside the castle. Her brothers and the other orphans were outside, playing in the hot springs after a long day of training. Frank had allowed them to do so, seeing as how a little recreational activity would lift their spirits. He tested the waters early on, and found them to his liking. They were good bathing spots, and held little sulfur. Some of the elder women stood by at the banks, watching over the young ones to keep them out of harm's way.

Frank led a horse out for Tilera to ride on and stuffed in some supplies, a bow and quiver full of poisoned arrows, and shortsword strapped to the saddle. Frank turned and stopped to say his farewells.

It was her rite of passage. But just as she was brought up to become the best, she also had the fallibility of being human. Just like him, she wasn't immortal, she could die. This might be the last time they would see each other. "Tilera..."

The girl surprised Frank when she moved in and embraced him. The man stiffened and squirmed uncomfortably in her grasp, but he calmed down when he realized the act was better than words could ever do, and put one arm across her shoulders.

"Thank you." Tilera whispered, breaking away as she declared her promise. "I will kill them all, and I _will_ return."

Frank nodded, and helped her up the saddle. The girl nudged her steed forward gently, and the horse trotted down the path and out of the ruined citadel. She passed the narrow natural corridor leading out of the mountains and out into the wilderness, in search of her target- another bandit leader terrorizing the countryside, and whose days of raping, pillaging and plunder were numbered.

* * *

Tilera rode for days after her quarry, stopping briefly at twilight each day to rest her horse and eat before hitting the trail again hard. The young huntress was close to her goal, for the trail left behind by the bandits was obvious and sloppily covered. It was almost too easy, but she remained cautious. She was alone in this, without her brothers to back her up. She only had her master's teachings, and the blades at her disposal.

She followed the directions given by a local woodcutter, who had taken in the survivors of the latest bandit raid on the common road. They led to the edge of Sodden territory, close to the Great River Yaruga. One thing she noted out of the testament of the survivors was that the bandits 'commanded ash and fire', which she knew meant very well that the bandits had sorcerers on their side. That made her rite of passage even more difficult, but Tilera was not about to stop now.

She was so far from home, the trip would not be wasted.

The huntress' mount galloped into the valley overlaid with thick forest treelines and dense underbrush- a perfect ambush site and place to set up traps. When she arrived there, Tilera halted her mount and overheard the distant crackling of burning logs and laughter of celebrating renegades. She got closer, leaving her horse tied safely in the other side of the forest treeline before heading on to size her enemies up. Her eyes widened when she counted more than twenty five of the bandit raiders.

There were a bunch of brawlers, swordsmen and archers, but there seemed to be no sign of mages. That is, until the flap of the tent was lifted and out walked the bandit leader, as was evident of the way he carried himself and dressed. He was tall, bald and clean-shaven, and had a heavy golden chain around his neck that glowed with unnatural fire.

The bandit leader _was_ the mage.

A heavy bounty was on his head, something Tilera planned to claim in the nearest town, before she would disappear into the wilderness again to head back home. Her master didn't seem to mind about that plan early on, but he didn't encourage it either. He only cared about making sure she was ready for the many ugly things they would do in the future.

Frank taught her that sometimes one man can do what even an army could not, and in this case she would do well to utilize the terrain to her advantage. She planned on something as devious and equally complicated as to trap the whole treeline with makeshift and deadly stake spikes, then lure the bandits into the forest to be taken down to a preferable number.

She got to work, sharpening stakes and digging shallow trenches to set them up in. She later covered these with broken branches and leaves from nearby saplings and trees. Tilera worked feverishly, never once stopping for fear that the bandits would soon move out and all her work would have been wasted. The young huntress finished the traps with a final deadly contraption, a trip-activated wall of spikes made out of stakes and vines, powerful enough to impale a running man and difficult to see with the naked eye.

Tilera made a note of where she placed the traps, knowing that forgetting would just as easily get her killed as her quarry. She might as well had dug her own grave in this place.

Now, all that's left was for her to make the bait. Tilera nocked a poison arrow onto the bowstring, drew it halfway, and swiftly walked towards the camp. She took aim, whispered aloud her master's instruction, and drew the bowstring full to her cheek. As she exhaled, the missile sped across the air and struck one of the bandits in the back. The man yelped and collapses onto the pyre, knocking over the spit roasting the camp's dinner and alerting the whole camp to Tilera's presence.

"We're under attack! Get 'em!" One yelled, and the whole bandit army armed themselves and charged at the treeline, with Tilera making a hasty retreat behind the mass of traps waiting to shed blood beneath the thin layer of brushes and leaves. The huntress counted on the men being too bloodthirsty and drunk to think about the danger posed by her feint, and it worked all too well for her.

A snap, a crackle and a pop, the bandits unfortunate enough to step onto the traps soon found out why the huntress fled so quickly into that particular position! Sixteen went down, _sixteen! _Tilera chuckled grimly, "Idiots."

"Whole bloody forest is booby-trapped!" Cried one of those held in the spike pits, "Help me! I've been caught!" His next sentence was cut off as Tilera's arrow struck him through the eye. His head snapped back, and he uttered a gurgling noise as he died. That was an accident shot, Tilera was aiming for his throat.

He's still dead, so she shrugged off her misfire.

The frightened bandits, only a handful of their original number, stuck close together and refused to go any further. They stayed in the clear line of sight of Tilera's bow, and she fired off a couple of arrows that killed their archers. The darkness of the dusk set off a gnawing feeling of paranoia among the bandits, and not even the grinding barks of their leader could still their frantically beating hearts.

Tilera wanted to savor the kill, feeling a little overconfident at her triumph. She emerged from her hiding place, revealing that horrifying white skull stitched onto black cloth on her face. She drew both her sword and knife, and charged at the enemy. The bandits were sluggish, too sluggish for the agile and smaller woman as she weaved in and out of their formation like a lithe cat. As taught by Frank, Tilera aimed for their open throats and extended wrists, tearing wide gashes that flowed thick red to sprinkle the grass with blood.

Then, her overconfidence betrayed her. The bandit leader channeled the forces in his body into a small fireball, and unleashed the spell just as Tilera killed the last of his men. The woman's eyes widened in the rush of the moment, and instinctively crossed her arms over her face as the fireball erupted in front of her. The flames scalded her skin and burned off her sleeves, the resulting explosion knocked the air out of her lungs and shattered a few ribs. Tilera fell, dropping her sword as she lay their gasping for air.

"You came alone?" The bandit leader clicked his tongue disapprovingly, "Bad idea." The fingers on his left hand flexed and crackled with life, he prepared a lightning bolt to kill the foolish assailant to show her the error of her ways. Suddenly, the sorcerer yowled in agony as a white hot searing pain lanced through his open hand! Tilera had thrown her knife and severed his fingers, minus the thumb, then seized the moment as the sorcerer clutched at his injured limb.

The woman tackled and threw him to the ground, screaming like a banshee as she dug her thumbs into his eyes! "Die!" She screeched, "Die!" The sorcerer's free hand flailed wildly, and cast gout of flame that seared a good part of Tilera's face! The woman was too far gone to feel the pain, her eyes blazed with all the fires of hell, and she reached for the fallen sword nearby to drive it through her enemy's mouth, silencing him forever.

The sorcerer gurgled noisily, and his body twitched its last moments, then was still.

Tilera trembled with excitement, her whole body shaking with the aftermath of the struggle. Slowly, a grin found its way into her lips. And even though her face felt like it was still on fire, the huntress was ecstatic.

She survived her rite.

**}!{**


	5. Eve of Battle

**BTW, to those who're wondering who's Ten Men Kell, it's a reference to a scrapped fic of mine. I know some of that fic's former readers are looking into this one, just thought it would be a fun addition.**

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_Journal Entry: Day Thirty, after that ordeal with the bandit king..._

_Mister Castle showed me something very interesting today._

_As I kept working on perfecting my experiments, an accident triggered an explosion that blew apart a good deal of my new workshop! Fortunately, I was able to duck under the table when the fuse was lit. Aside from singed eyebrows and scalded skin, I lost most of my notes in the resulting fire. I still feel the sting of shame for my carelessness, but I have to say that this turn of events paved the way for a better course._

_Once the mess was cleaned up, I dug through the ruins of my workshop and recovered boxes full of my finished grenades._

_Stammelford's dust pales in comparison to my creation, that much I am confident to say out loud! I know Mister Castle would ask, or even demand, that I allow him and his merry band of vigilantes to use them to purpose- a request that I am not in the mood to refuse. For in all honesty, I care little for what the bombs would be used for, only that they be used with proper respect. I toiled for a lifetime to get all that right, in the name of science, the least anyone could do with my inventions is treat it with utmost care._

_Mister Castle, as I came to know, did not come from this world or any that I or anyone could've imagined. His explanation was brief, I understood that he preferred to have my focus elsewhere- in this case, that strange L shaped weapon he kept on his person at all times. Upon demonstrating the capabilities of my creations, he took me aside and revealed to me many things concerning the world he came from._

_And I have to say, those things he told me were absolutely fascinating. Unlike my peers in the academy, the schools of arcane and technology, I am an open-minded person. I did not dismiss his revelations, rather, I learned from them. He wasn't the first to cross over from another realm, neither would he be the last, that much I'm certain. The world he came from, in comparison to mine, I should say is not so different. The era might have been a little bit more advanced, but their society remained unchanged. Knowledge remained as a two edged blade, both benefiting mankind and destroying it- as all things do._

_But I'm not a philosopher, I'm an innovator. I'm only interested in replicating what I could from what Mister Castle told me._

_My formula, which he took to calling blasting oil ( a crude description, one that I would let slide once I've come up with a better name ) was comparative to something developed in his own world, there they named 'nitroglycerin'. Though he was not student of history, Mister Castle revealed that while the Stammelford's dust paled in comparison to my discovery, the formula of blasting oil was more dangerous than I first surmised ( as if I need a lecture on that bit, I already witnessed it firsthand ). He warned me not to expose the liquids to any form of heat, lest I lead to the total destruction of all we had built here. I, of course, took the necessary precautions and locked away the blasting oil jars and elixirs in the cellar._

_Another thing he showed me was the contents of his otherworldly device, that L shaped weapon on his hip. __He called it a 'gun', and the contents were things called 'bullets'. I had a hard time spelling it out for a while, and I hope I get it right here on paper. Mister Castle told me that with these weapons, two men could enter and destabilize whole kingdoms in a single night. He told me of stories, of how one well-placed bullet changed the course of history. It was apparent that he wanted me to immediately break down the components, study how it was made, then replicate it to the best of my ability._

_I took one look at the device, avoiding making any promises, then told him in all honesty that the weapon was beyond our time. Though I am excited to begin working, I told him that there was only so much that I could do. It would take a long time before I could discover this technological wonder, and even longer to perfect it._

_Mister Castle merely replied that he could be patient. As it was his turn to be honest, Mister Castle revealed to me his true plans for my world. This land, any land, had monsters. I cannot argue with that philosophy, whereas in fact I approve of it. Mister Castle wished to put an end to the suffering of the good folk, the downtrodden and the innocent. It was this plan that drove him to take care of the orphans, although I doubt he really wanted to turn them into his little band of 'Punishers'._

_He only cared now that I would begin working, and finish as soon as possible._

_I took the gun from him, and with his permission, took it apart._

* * *

Frank Castle rose up from his morning exercise and headed for the hot springs, intent on cleaning himself up for the day. Any time now, his most gifted student would return, bringing with her the much needed encouragement for her brothers and needed to know that the tasks he would set for them were not impossible, and that soon, they would set the balance right.

Soon, Nilfgaard and the Northern Kingdoms will learn that their sins would have an accounting.

Frank rounded the corner and stopped as his eyes fell on Ten Men Kell. The man was seated casually against the rock above the bubbling spring, dressed only in his loincloth as he reveled in the warm vapor caressing his naked skin. The warrior opened one eye and smiled as he addressed the Punisher, "Morning, Mister Castle."

"Hmph." Frank grunted in response, dropping his towel as he prepared to enter the pool. "I thought you would've been gone by now."

"Nah, not a chance." Kell replied, averting his eyes modestly as Frank shed his shorts. "Besides, it's not everyday you get to live in a castle, surrounded by a safe natural wall with all your needs met. I practically live like a king here. It's a nice change to a life from the outside."

"Don't get used to it." Frank glared at him as he leaned back against the banks of the hot spring. "If you're going to live here, you're going to have to earn your keep."

Kell threw up his hands, "I know, I know. Don't mistake me for a freeloader. I'm actually interested in what you're doing here." He locked his fingers together and leaned forward, "You're trying to build an army, correct?"

Frank nodded, "That's right."

"Does that mean you're going to start a war with Nilfgaard?"

"I haven't done anything to say otherwise." Frank replied.

"Good, I want in." Kell leaned back casually, "Traveled this far from Korath just to kill some Black Ones anyway."

"Happy to hear that." Frank remarked, "But I'd like to know why."

Kell took a deep breath and stared at the blue skies above, "When I was kid, the Nilfgaardians wanted to expand their territories south. My family was living in the only town in that frying pan of a valley. You would never expect a lonely town in the outback to hold any value for the Empire, but as it turned out, we had. Our town was sitting upon the largest gold deposit found in the south. The Nilfgaardians didn't want to have to go through all the trouble of having to ask permission, relocate our people or any of that sort. So they rolled over us, butchered everyone and began excavating the deposit. They killed my mother, father and brothers in a single night. I will not speak of what they did to my sisters."

Frank frowned, feeling very angry at the man's story. "How did you survive?"

Kell scratched the back of his neck, "Well, my mother was a witch. Not the kind that kidnaps children, drinks their blood to stay young and turns her victims into toads. She was a healer, an expert in the art of longevity and vitality, knowledge was passed down from our great grandparents. She imbued me with the souls of ten men, hence my name. The only problem was, that left me as the only survivor of the attack."

"What happened next?"

"I escaped and wandered around with a nomadic caravan, full of cutthroats, fellow orphans and thieves. There, I learned the hard way how to survive in this world, and so far I think it's working well enough for me." Kell said as he absentmindedly paddled his feet against the water, "As I grew older and stronger, so did the spell. Now, I can't go around without having to take my fill of food and drink that's good for ten men."

"Huh, quite a predicament if you ask me."

Kell shook his head laughing, "Not quite. At least I can fuck a woman for hours and still be back for more. The spell has its benefits, like when I'm in a fight and I get skewered by an arrow or two. I can still keep fighting with wounds that would kill a single man."

"That's...useful." Frank agreed. "Why do you think she did it?"

"Who? Mother?" Kell answered, "No idea. Maybe she knew she and everyone else was going to die, then wanted something of hers to remain at the very least." The man sighed again, obviously saddened by the memory. "Come to think of it, she should've put the spell on my older brother. He was a lot more headstrong than I was, he deserved better."

"They all did." Frank said.

"Now you." Kell inquired, "Why do you hate the Nilfgaardians?"

Frank tried to avoid speaking about his own harrowing experience, but acquiesced to the man's question. "When I came here, I was wounded in a fight with some soldiers. A blacksmith and his daughter took care of me, gave me food and bound my wounds. They died to the Nilfgaardians in a crossfire between their armies and the Northern defenders. I didn't know them very well, but they were good people."

"Innocent people." Kell agreed.

"Yeah." Frank's Punisher persona flared up a little at the word, "Though I've always thought that there's no such thing as innocence, just degrees of guilt."

"That so? And who told you that?"

"Nobody, just experience."

Well then." Kell rose up to dry himself off, "If you need any guilty ones _punished_, let me know. The world'll be a better place without them." The man walked off, leaving Frank to take a moment to be alone with his thoughts.

It was coming together nicely, he said to himself. Just a few more weeks, to be absolutely certain that his students would be ready for the war he would send them into, and they would hit the Nilfgaardians where it hurt the most. He would use guerilla tactics for now, utilize Lenny's blasting oil to instill a chilling grip of fear within the minds of both the Empire's soldiers and their officers. His first mission would be to hunt down the officer responsible for the attack that killed Maleon and his daughter Anaia, and then work his way even further until at last they would reach the Emperor himself.

Along the way, he would have to learn as much as he could about his targets. Frank was never one for blind vengeance, he did that once and paid for it. No, he had to fight smart, smarter than ever before. Until Lenny discovered how to create this world's version of firearms, his mind would have to be his greatest weapon, for the enemy had both the numbers and the power of magic on its side.

Frank left the springs and got dressed for the day, immediately setting his students to practice all he had taught them. They were learning quickly, and developed their own skills. There were three exceptional students among them that caught his eye.

First, was Callaghan, or more commonly known to his peers as Cal. The boy couldn't have been more than sixteen, his true age unknown since he made no effort to let anyone know, nor could he if he wished. Cal's tongue had been cut out by the bandits during his imprisonment at the camp. Even before his town was razed, Cal had already been an orphan, working alone in the blacksmith's shop as an apprentice.

Though he worked most hours forging new equipment at the makeshift crafting room in the castle, Cal trained at the yard with the other lads with his steel-cast warhammer. Sixteen, but was as large as a full grown man, at a towering height of seven. His bulk allowed him to swivel the massive weapon around with the speed of one who uses a sword, and with greater ease from his arms rippling with muscles born from a lifetime in the forge.

Nolan was Tilera's younger brother, no more than fourteen or fifteen years of age. When he was first brought to the castle, the boy was in a catatonic state. He had witnessed the wicked things the bandits did to his elder sister, forced to watch by the vile lechers as they had their way with her. He had been watching for so long that the life left his eyes, leaving a shell of a human being behind it. Once, the Punisher thought him useless, but upon reaching the castle he broke out of his catatonia and cooperated well enough with his foster family. When Frank began teaching the boys and girls how to fight, Nolan picked up an axe from the stockpile of weapons salvaged from the battlefields and began training with it. The weapon was two sizes too large for the lad, but given time, he learned how to use the weight of the weapon so well that as his scrawny body grew in size so did his skill. Being a woodcutter's son helped in familiarizing him with his weapon of choice.

Now, he wielded the axe with better coordination as if it were a part of his own arm. Frank watched as he split apart the wooden practice dummy with one fell swing of his weapon, and a smile formed on his face. Nolan took the look of approval well and practiced even harder.

And lastly, was Velvet.

Velvet was a butcher's girl who worked in her mother's shop selling chopped pork legs and cow heads for a living. One might easily mistake her heavy set and odd shortly-cropped hairstyle for a man, but then again, looks were never a priority in combat. It worked well for her unique fighting style, using sharpened pieces of metal attached to oaken wood handles that resembled battle cleavers. Frank had Cal forge some brass strips for her, molding them together as brass knuckles to fit over the handles.

That way, if she couldn't slash at her opponent, she could just bash its face in with the brass knuckles. Very useful in a pinch, indeed.

"Master!" The boys guarding the towers close to the first gates called from where they stood. Frank could hear them well from where he was, and he waited for their report. "A rider's approaching! It's Tilera! She's back!"

Frank smiled and waved at the guards, walking up to the path to meet up with the triumphant huntress. Tilera was safe, although she did not emerge from her rite of passage unscathed. Frank looked upon her in concern, seeing the burn marks on the woman's face. It wasn't anything that couldn't heal, but there would be scars.

"Are you alright, Tilera?"

The woman smiled and tossed a bag full of gold, copper and silver coins to her master. "I will heal, a few burns cannot stop me from doing what needs doing." She dismounted and walked her horse to the stables, "I picked that up from the bounty. That should buy us what we need in the future."

Frank squeezed the money bag thoughtfully, and his brow furrowed at he implications. "Tilera..."

"I know, master. I know what you're thinking." Tilera said honestly, "I did not think of my mission as a means to strike it rich, or anything of personal gain. I claimed the bounty only because I knew the money would serve our cause better. That is all."

Frank leaned back, satisfied with her words. "You've done me proud, girl. Get yourself fixed up and prepare for the night. Your brothers and sisters are eager to begin." As he turned to leave, Tilera called after him by inquiring of her rite's conclusion.

"Master, am I a Punisher now?"

Frank smirked, not even stopping to turn back to her. "You already were when you donned that mask."

* * *

"You're doing well." Frank told his students as they went in for lsupper. A hot pot full of steamy beef stew and home-baked bread had been prepared by the elder women for the orphans, and the hungry lads and lasses wolfed down on their meal while they listened to their master impart some words of encouragement. "You've trained the whole month with great dedication. But there's a time for training, and a time for testing. That test comes now..."

All were hushed, not a word spoken as the young warriors realized what their master was implying.

Frank felt it was time. They had rooted out the bandits, now it was time to send a message to the armies of South. "I will select the best of you to take with me on a journey south of the mountains. Tomorrow, at the crack of dawn, we will ride for the Valley of Sudduth. There's a large encampment responsible for distributing supplies to the main body of the Nilfgaardian army, we're going to set it on fire."

"But master..." Nolan asked, "What does this have to do with the bandits plaguing the land?"

"The Nilfgaardians have everything to do with it." Frank answered, "They marched through your towns, your cities, and left them defenseless. Believe me when I tell you, they chose not to do anything worse only because your villages held little interest to them. They left you to the wolves, that's just as bad. What we're doing is putting a stop to their dreams of conquest. We will keep doing this, until their armies would be so demoralized that it would leave the armies of the north some breathing room to launch a counter-assault. We will spare those villages and towns untouched by the war from experiencing the same thing that's happened to you."

The students saw the wisdom in that and Nolan deferred to his point of view, "Yes, Master Castle. But are you sure we're ready to take on an army?"

Frank stared at him, "Like any steel that needs to be tempered, it requires the flame. This test is the only way I can be absolutely certain. You can never know yourself until you've had a taste for it." He turned to the others, "Eat well, and sleep early. Tomorrow, you will begin your rite of passage, as my Punishers."

There were no words of excitement, no smiles or laughter. All were silent as they stared mutely at their bowls of stew. It was happening, and only now did those thoughts of doubt surface into the minds of his students.

Frank ignored the uncomfortable stillness of the room as he ate, he felt satisfied that they took his words seriously, that they knew what they signed up for was no laughing matter. This was preferable to the youth of his world, who glorified battle and just as easily crumbled when reality hit them.

**}!{**


	6. The Marnadal Stairs

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Nilfgaard had crossed the border of Nazair, and were now pushing through Cintran territory. The atrocities their subjects faced, and the threat of annihilation could not be ignored, so the ruling monarchs took action. While Queen Calanthe stayed to govern the city and the remaining forces tasked to protect the capital, King Eist Tuirseach gathered his army and marched south to stem the growing tide of the Black Ones.

2,000 infantrymen, well trained and loyal soldiers native to Cintra. 1,700 archers, arbalest-carriers and mercenary crossbowmen hired from companies of the east. And 1,000 angry militia composed of peasants with an axe to grind against their Nilfgaardian oppressors. Their vassal to the north, the tiny kingdom of Brugge, sent their elite cavalrymen to aid King Eist in his attempt to halt the Nilfgaardian invasion, adding another 1,500 heavy cavalry cataphract riders to his personal retinue. Attre put together 25 catapults, and 30 ballista mounted on chariots in the small amount of time given them and assembled crews experienced in handling the wooden beasts.

The Cintran army marched out of the safety of their walls and through the narrow pass that acted as a gateway into the Northern Kingdoms, the Marnadal Stairs. While the main body hiked through the rocky pathways, King Eist sent out scouts to provide a good layout of the land before them, and warn them if the Nilfgaardians got through early. When the army reached a stream that flowed through the middle of the Marnadal Stairs, the king received the preliminary reports of the scouts he sent forward. A hawk, bearing a scroll tied to its leg, flew back with a message detailing their findings at the end where the rocky pass parted into no-mans-land.

King Eist took a swig from his wineskin and opened the scroll, squinting hard into the scribbled writing to make sense of them with his ailing eyesight. _Entire Nilfgaardian camp, 1,000 strong, destroyed at Sudduth Valley. Corpses burnt to ash, likely the work of mages. _Eist frowned, "One thousand Nilgaardians, gone in a single night? Interesting." The king handed the scroll down for his advisers to view for themselves.

"We do not know of any form of resistance in that area." Ubrich Strauss, the acting royal spymaster, said to the king. "But it's not surprising that the Nilfgaardians stirred up a hornets nest in their brazen attempt to conquer the land. I, for one, would like to know who was responsible for such a feat."

"The message does not say about the remains of the ones who did the deed, that in itself is nothing short of a miracle." King Eist replied, "But I'm not about to waste precious time hunting for ghosts. We're here to kick Nilfgaard back to the southlands and send a message to the Emperor that if he wants a visit, he can bring himself and not an army. Tell the men to pack up, break's over, we're moving out."

The Cintran army did as their leader commanded, and soon they were right back on the path south. They eventually happened on the same spot where the scouts reported on, where the thousand charred and blasted apart corpses of the Black Ones lay scattered upon the ashen earth. The fires were still burning, surprisingly. When the king dismounted from his horse and entered the site with his advisers, he quickly deduced that this was not the work of magic. He called for the experts in the alchemical arts, and of the arcane, to investigate.

What they found, traces of it, confirmed his speculations. King Eist listened intently, that he doesn't miss a single detail from the reports.

"My king, no mage has done this deed." The learned men of the scholia arcana said, seconded by their alchemist colleagues. "The residue we've collected had no magical properties, but chemical. Initial tests indicate the presence of Stammelford's dust, but this one was a mixture of something more volatile. If you can observe, the smallest puff of air keeps the fires alive. By our estimates, and judging from the rate of decomposition from the corpses, this unknown compound has been burning all week."

"All week?" The generals whispered amongst themselves.

"Thank you, I think I've learned all I need." King Eist said to the mage, dismissing him as he turned to his advisers. "Someone built a weapon, one that can be used by the common man."

Knowing that mages were as rare as diamonds, Ubrich Strauss knew exactly where this was going. "If we find the source, it would be instrumental to our defense against Nilfgaard." A weapon that could be used by anyone without having to rely on magic- the potential for such an asset would be limitless. "Shall I begin my search, my king?"

"Your permission is granted, spymaster." Eist said with a wave of his hand, "But I urge you to be quick. The war will not wait."

A screech in the air brought the attention of all skyward, and King Eist stood up to receive the messenger hawk from the scout party south. He quickly snatched the scroll and scrutinized the message. As he read the words on the rough strip of paper, his expression turned worrisome. He read the message out loud to his advisers to let them know of the coming storm, "Main body of Nilfgaardian army mobilizing. Converging on Marnadal Stairs. We're surrounded, dead by the time this message reaches the king. Gods grant you strength."

"Damn." King Eist growled, feeling the pang of pity press against his heart at the thought of those good scouts killed doing their job right, at the same time proud they were able to warn the army ahead of the approaching black tide. "Get me a map!" The squires rushed to obey his command, and set up the local maps that showed the lands from the borders of Nazair to the Amell Mountains beside the pass. The king gathered his generals to form a quick battle plan in order to counter the impending assault on the Marnadal Stairs.

"We'll need to fortify the Stairs. Set up cavalry stakes to break up their charges, and squads of archers on the hills and cliffs." The king pointed to the natural rock walls formed at the sides of the pass. "With the mages we have, position them at every three lines of men in the front. The catapults should be as far as their effective range would allow, the ballista too. Nilfgaard has blood to spare, we don't. Let them come to hammer at our position, but our priority is to demoralize them to the breaking point- absolutely no direct engagements unless necessary."

That also meant the Cintrans wouldn't have the option of making charges of their own. Nilfgaard had the numbers, outnumbered them five to one, and were on the offensive. A direct confrontation would weaken their defense and leave their beloved lands vulnerable to the Black Ones. They had to hold the line, while the messengers were busy begging for the northern kingdoms to give aid to the sorely lacking Cintran army.

"What about our cavalry, sir?" One general asked, "If we're not on the offensive, they're useless in this fight."

"Hmm." Eist thought a bit for a moment, "Not unless we use them to outflank maneuvers and scatter enemy infantry when they move towards the Stairs. If the enemy manages to bring siege weapons to the battle, the cavalry will have to be responsible for torching them. A risky and costly move, but it should go without saying that this is what they signed up for."

* * *

Frank walked up to the group of dark-clad young men and women sitting around the fire as they waited for the meat that hung over the cooking spit to roast well enough to be eaten. The Punisher's presence caused all mirthful talk and noise to cease almost immediately, and his students looked up to him in silence, waiting to hear what he had to say. He looked them over thoughtfully, judging each and every one for their disposition on the tasks they accomplished in the past week.

"Do you know why we killed those men?" Frank asked.

Tilera was quick to answer, "They were guilty."

The Punisher nodded, "And?"

Nolan, Tilera's younger brother, gauged his words carefully before answering. "We...even if they weren't all guilty...we couldn't let them bring any more harm to the good folks around here."

Frank let a hint of a smile form on the corners of his lips, proud that his students were learning all the right lessons he wanted to impart. "Yes. It's a time of war, my students. The darkest part of man's heart thrives in chaos, and there is no other place where he lets his inner demons run free. Innocents will be harmed, we will protect them as best as we could." The Punisher sat down next to the fire and stared at the crackling flames dancing upon the charred wood pile. "And for those we cannot, we avenge."

"We _punish_. That is also our purpose." Tilera's scars gleamed in the light as the fire cast its glare upon the tender skin that closed over the nasty burns on her face. "Bandits, murderers and rapists. Monsters that walk like men. We will kill them all."

"You did well against the Nilfgaardian encampment, I look forward to seeing you hold your own against similar odds in the future." Frank said, "Never forget, you must rely on one another. Each with a part to play in every engagement."

"Yes, Master Castle." The Punishers said in unison.

The scent of charred flesh blew his way, and Frank smirked as he pointed at the spit. "By the way, you're burning the meat."

* * *

Dawn had come.

The spymaster rode out with his entourage of trackers, elite bodyguards and bloodhounds, on a quest to seek out the source of the weapon used to burn out the Nilfgaardian camp, that he might bring it back to the king and set it to purpose. The army of Cintra hunkered down and set up the stakes in a wide net around the entrance to the stairs. King Eist sent messengers to ride back to the north to ask for the aid of his allies, and to press those who weren't to come as well. Over the years, Eist had cultivated relations with every Northern kingdom he could reach, from Temeria up to Redania. His efforts bore little fruit, however, but that did not stop him from trying.

He hoped the North would see the threat Nilfgaard posed to their way of life, and in regards to their future, enough to know that aiding in the Northern Kingdoms' defense was the only way to keep it as it was.

The early morning mists, stirred by the sudden warmth of the ground, rose up to obscure the land ahead. The men of Cintra were nervous, and rightly so. In their superstitious perspective, Death had come for them that day, waiting for the slightest lapse in concentration. Hardened commanders marched to the front and barked orders to distract the men from such notions, reminding them of their duty to king and country.

In the distance the faint pounding of battle-drums hummed through the air, reaching the ears of the Cintran warriors and further sowing dread into their frantic hearts. King Eist, against the advice of his generals, rode out into the front to inspire his men where his commanders couldn't. He encouraged them, urging them to think of the families they had left behind, to fight hard to protect them and avenge those they had lost. The rousing speech, though brief, was enough to set fire to the smoldering coals of their fighting spirit.

Eagles soared high up in the clear sky, hovering above the waiting Cintran army. Having spent his fair share of time with masters of the arcane, Eist knew them to be Nilfgaardian spies, shapeshifting mages that could transform into animals or bind them to do their bidding. He then ordered for the best marksmen to shoot them down, before the Nilfgaardians could get a good look of their defenses and exploit any flaws or weaknesses.

Then, the faint shadows in the horizon appeared.

"Here they come." Eist breathed, spurring his horse into a trot before the men. He stopped to listen to the blare of trumpets in the distance, then to the rumbling gallop of a hundred horses charging towards the mouth of the Marnadal Stairs. "Pikemen! Archers! Ready your weapons!" The king drew his sword and rode back and forth, keeping the tension up for all those who would listen. The mist cleared up gradually, revealing the hundred horsemen to be near a thousand! The Cintrans steeled themselves and planted their feet firmly onto the wet soil, spears and pikes extended well over the wooden stake traps the cavalry would undoubtedly try to jump over.

The commanders on the hill barked out the command to nock, draw and ready. The archers fitted their arrows onto their bowstrings and pulled them up to their cheeks, eagerly awaiting the signal to fire. Experienced marksmen, all of them, they knew how far the arrows would fall. Fortunately, no strong wind was blowing at this time of day, so the arrows would hit where they were aiming at- relatively speaking.

The Nilfgaardians spurred their mounts faster, lances at the ready and mouths agape to bellow out incoherent warcries to rattle the intimidated Cintran army.

"Loose!"

The arrows shot out of their bows and whistled as they moved through the air. On a neat curve, gravity pulled them back down to earth, and the steel-tipped hail cut down the charging Black Ones to an acceptable hundredths. Momentum caused them to shatter the stakes, throwing the mounted knights and warriors onto the muddy soil, only to be hacked apart by the encroached Cintrans. The damage, however, had been done. The rest of the cavalry broke through the first line and spilled into the valley, cutting down every man they could reach. Pikemen drove their lances into the charging horsemen, then drew their swords once the poles broke on impact.

"For Cintra!" Sergeants yelled as they waded into the thick of battle, joining their brothers as the Nilfgaardians pressed hard in an attempt to break their hold on the Marnadal Stairs. King Eist disappeared momentarily, only to reappear at the Nilfgaardian cavalry flank to box in the Black Ones in a surprise attack. At the sight of their king joining in the battle, the Cintrans fought even harder and soon after vanquished the cavalry where they stood.

A cheer broke out amongst the men at the small victory, but Eist knew this was just the beginning. The Nilfgaardians were merely testing them, and had succeeded in reducing their defenses to splinters. The battle-drums sounded again in the distance, and the blare of the command horn called for the Black Ones to begin the march into the Stairs. Eist's heart almost sank, but he refused to let it be so. "Form up! This isn't over!" The king yelled, "Shore up the barriers, gather the wounded and pull them back!"

The Cintrans obeyed, licked their wounds and awaited grimly for the impending slaughter.

**}!{**

**A/N A little omake I couldn't resist making ;)**

**_At a lonely diner in Hell's Kitchen, a tall man in his late fifties walked through the door. The waitress looked up as the bell rang where the frame hit it and turned her eyes to the clock. It was just thirty minutes before closing time, she reminded him of this, but he ignored the prompt all the same._**

**_He wasn't here for the pancakes._**

**_Frank Castle sat back on his chair and motioned for the man to come over. The big guy pulled up a stool and leaned over the table. He flashed a friendly smile and shook the Punisher's hand before engaging him in small talk. Then, the bell rang again. The door slammed shut, and the waitress rolled her eyes, not even bothering to repeat herself as she went about her business cleaning up the aisle._**

**_It was another guy, dressed in a classy black suit that looked like it got soaked in the rain one too many times. A band-aid was stretched across the bridge of his nose, and a bruise peeked out of his right cheek. His cold, dead eyes saw the other two men on the table in the corner, and made his way towards them._**

**_Frank had already paid coffee for three. The two men fell silent as the third patron of the diner took a seat with them. The tall man pushed the last cup of steaming hot coffee his way and waited for the stranger to take a sip before speaking._**

**_"I'm Brian Mills."_**

**_"John Wick." Came the reply. He leered at Frank. _****_"And you?"_**

**_"Castle." The Punisher said with nod. "Frank Castle."_**

**_"What'd they do to you?" Mr. Wick said, turning his attention to Mr. Mills._**

**_"They took my daughter, raped and killed her friend, then sold her to be the slave of a wealthy oil baron." Brian wrapped his hands around the warm cup before him, "So I killed them all."_**

**_The two of them glanced up at Frank, to which he answered. "They killed my family to get to me. So I killed them all. And you?"_**

**_John Wick's eyes narrowed at the memory, and realized how much he missed Daisy...and his wife. "They killed my dog. So I killed them all."_**

**_His answer was met with an uncomfortable silence. Frank and Brian didn't know whether to feel sorry, or flat out laugh at the ridiculous line he just said. John must've noticed their expressions, because he then added quickly. "And...they stole my car."_**

**_The former assassin of the Continental drank up his coffee and cleared his throat. "It was a Ford Mustang, Mach One."_**

**_Frank pursed his lips, Brian formed an O with his own and whistled. Gradually, the other two nodded their heads and offered grunts of acknowledgements._**

**_"Well yeah...Yeah, you just don't mess with a guy's car."_**

**_XD_**


	7. The Earthshaker

**}!{**

_Journal Entry: Day Forty-Six..._

_My work has proven fruitful this past month..._

_I've taken apart the weapon as requested by Mister Castle, and began analyzing its components carefully. It wasn't easy, I'll admit, as I first thought. Too many components, too much work in a single life-time. It's amazing how something so small and seemingly insignificant could hold so much power- and be so complex with so many small parts that assemble into one whole. This 'gun', if replicated to the best of this era's capabilities, could be the biggest scientific breakthrough known to man- next to my blasting oil, of course._

_Polishing up on my finished work, I synthesized a powdery form of the blasting oil, which allows for longer shelf-life and stability. No need for cold containers or damp cellars, I had the lads move the 'blasting powder' into empty barrels and store it within a special room I've designed over the weeks to safeguard the precious commodity. Nights spent trying to figure out how to apply my findings into a practical sense were not used in vain, for I soon found the inspiration I've been needing all this time._

_I realized I didn't need to start small. If I was to begin the first, I would have to start with something quite big, and so I got to work._

_I got the blacksmith lad to forge me a massive shaft, smoothed into a sort of cylinder with a sizable hollow in the middle to fit a projectile the size of my fist. Then, upon visualizing for a time, I had him forge a small two-wheeled carriage to mount the shaft ( one I shall designate formally as the barrel ). I set up the weapon with a small crew of three Punishers upon the nearby hill, with an adequate supply of blasting powder and some stone balls fashioned out of the limestone quarries below the mountain. I measured the blasting powder necessary to produce the desired controlled explosion within the barrel, loaded a stone ball into the shaft and ignited the powder._

_Initial trials failed, resulting in the destruction of my first prototype. The amount of powder I used was too much for the barrel, and the pressure tore it apart ( and very nearly took all of us down with it )_

_Going back to the drawing board, I calculated the precise amount to 4 pounds at a minimum ( the first trial I estimated was about 12, hence the explosive results ). I talked the blacksmith boy into forging me the same weapon, this time with a hook stabilizer in the rear to keep the shaft anchored on solid ground whenever it fires. The trial succeeded when the experiment was repeated, but the crude machination was far from accurate. I, being the perfectionist, would never be satisfied unless all aspects were tuned to utmost efficiency- and so I kept on working._

_Many more trials later, I adjusted the parameters for the construction of the device ( one I shall officially name as Earthshaker ) to limit the mouth of the barrel by a few more centimeters. Then, as I observed the curious grooves within Mister Castle's 'gun, I ordered the blacksmith to do the same for the barrel. That way, the flight of the projectile would be narrowed to a point, and thus reduce inaccuracies significantly._

_Once that project was completed, I began working on the next step in perfecting the Earthshaker- by creating better ammunition for it to use in the battlefield._

_I studied the 'bullets' within the 'gun' and realized that it contained its own version of blasting powder, along with a chemical substance used to ignite the powder once struck by that 'firing pin' along the chamber. Taking this inspiration into account, I began forming my own version of the 'bullet' but on a far larger scale to accommodate the larger Earthshaker. I replicated the bullet with some difficulty, thought eventually succeeding and fashioned the shell into some sort of dome-shaped head to offer less resistance to the grooves of the barrel._

_Then, all that was left was for me to redesign the Earthshaker and construct a loader's breech so the shell would be loaded into it. I had the blacksmith forge a few crudely shaped cast iron caps that would cover the opposite end of the weapon, and settled for the best he could make based on my sketches. I worked hard in the workshop, drawing and fashioning out of steel rods the final piece, and put together the finished product. Looking back, I could never have been more proud of myself._

_Mister Castle said this weapon was the combined work of thousands of years of development, and in a few months I managed to cut down that time and still fashion one of my own design that I'd dare say falls on par with any of them!_

_I am truly the smartest dwarf in the world!_

* * *

Frank's eyes squinted under the brilliance of the orange flames erupting like geysers out of the earth where he and his students had thrown their grenades. The Punishers had ambushed another contingent of nilfgaardian invaders, boxing them in the middle of a flat valley on the common road and reducing men, horses and carriages to ash within seconds.

The vindicator smiled grimly and congratulated the young men and women fighting alongside him, "Well done." He turned his eyes about to see Tilera and her brother dragging a lone survivor out of the bushes he had attempted to hide himself in. The poor man whimpered and squealed, knowing his end was near. He had been a capable warrior in the past, proudly fighting for the Empire in distant lands. This new form of war was like nothing he had ever seen, and the unfamiliar terrified him to no end!

The ghostly white skulls stitched onto nightmare black masks snarled at him, and the nilfgaardian pissed himself as the cold bite of steel pressed against his throat.

"Wait." Frank growled, "Let this one live."

Tilera could not believe her ears, "Master?"

Frank didn't answer her immediately, choosing instead to further frightened man's fears of the Punishers. He looked down at the nilfgaardian, ignoring the acrid stench wafting out of his soaked pants as he addressed the man in a menacing tone. "You will run back to your friends, and you will tell them what happened here. The North holds only death for Nilfgaard." Tilera listened intently to her master's words, and realized the importance of driving home the fear of the Punishers. It wouldn't do much leaving only corpses for the vultures to feast on every engagement, there had to be someone left alive to tell the tale.

"I see why you let him go." The young vindicator said to Frank as they watched the man disappear into the distance.

"Do you now?" Her master grunted as he turned his heel to leave. He waved for the young men and women to regroup that they might disappear back into the forests where they came.

"Our work would go ever so smoothly if our reputation precedes us." Tilera said, "To have that, we'd need survivors for it to happen."

Frank admired the sharp mind of the woman and nodded silently.

"Master Castle!" Someone from the rear hissed in a voice barely above a whisper, "We are being watched! Up there, on the hill!"

Frank turned around and scanned the valley for the indicated party shadowing the Punishers. The lad who pointed them out had a good eye, it would've taken a long while for any other to spot the men standing atop the hill a hundred meters from the carnage they had ensued. Frank squinted hard, and his lip twitched into a snarl as he regarded the strangers with suspicion. "Fade into the forest. If they come for us, we'll be ready for them in our own element."

"Understood, master."

* * *

Ubrich Strauss knew better than to venture into the forest unprepared, but in this instance he wasn't about to lose the elusive faction he had been pursuing all week again. This was the first time he was able to witness the unknown explosive weapons in action, and that alone paled in comparison to how this particular group utilized it to deadly efficiency. Years of experience in the art of war taught the spymaster to gauge each person he met on the battlefield at based on how well they'd perform in any situation, and the tactics displayed in such a small theater of battle such as this was like nothing the spymaster had ever seen.

Most guerrilla forces he encountered were shoddily coordinated at best, and were inevitably doomed to fail due to their inability to adapt. This one, this faction of men and women dressed in black and adorned with nightmarish skull masks...they weren't guerrillas. They had the same goal to resist the Nilfgaardian occupation, that much was certain, but they were far from the norm.

That was why Strauss needed to get to know them better, and to do that he needed to gain an audience with their leader. Their involvement in the war against the Black Ones would tip the scales in Cintra's favor. And so he surmounted all of his doubts and ventured into the forest after them.

"Sir, we're walking into a trap." His aide warned him.

"I know, but before we spring it, I'd like to declare my intentions ahead of time." Strauss replied, "Trust in me, my friend. I've done this trick before."

"Your confidence...gives us strength." The aide sighed.

As the spymaster and his group neared a clearing in the middle of the forest, he suddenly halted and dismounted, much to the surprise of his escorts. Strauss steadied his breathing as he unstrapped his sword-belt and laid his weapon down on the grass, clear for all to see. His display of neutrality and a willingness to parlay was evident, but he needed to give voice to it before fully committing to his plan. He could feel about fifty arrows trained on him and his men, but the spymaster was ready.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and cleared his voice, "My name is Ubrich Strauss of Cintra! We haven't come to fight!"

The cry of the startled shrike sounded overhead, the spymaster's keen ears listened intently at the gentle noises of the forest around him. No replies were given, and so he continued. "We've come to ask for your help in fighting against Nilfgaard."

A voice with an implacable accent replied from somewhere in the thicket before him.

"If you're looking for mercenaries, you're in the wrong place. Turn back."

He got their attention, that was good enough for him. "Not until you hear me out first." An arrow struck the ground beside Strauss' right foot, causing the spymaster to jump in surprise. His escorts went for their weapons, but drew them only halfway.

"You're not hearing me, I said _turn back_. The next shots won't miss."

Strauss' lips grew taut as his attempts were rebuffed. He snatched up his weapon and got back on his horse, "Very well. Know this, Cintra desperately needs every help it can get and will fall if none are given. I know you distrust authority, as all rebels do, but you'd do well to remember that if Cintra falls, Nilfgaard will burn the North and everyone with it." He nudged his mount to trot about where he came, "Change your mind, please! Join us at the Marnadal Stairs before it's too late!"

He and his escort turned heel and galloped away.

* * *

Frank and the Punishers watched as the Cintrans rode out of the forest and back on the common road, then out of sight.

"Why didn't you want to help them, master?" Tilera asked as they gained the mountain pass leading back to the castle.

"If we revealed ourselves to them, and they saw what we could do, they would see us as a threat." Frank explained, owing to years and years of working with every government task force in his life in the other world. "Once we're under their employ, they will use us like disposable tools. I don't plan on selling our skills to the Cintrans, that's not the purpose of the Punishers."

"But aren't we supposed to defend the helpless from their oppressors?"

Frank shook his head, "Not with soldiers willing to die for their kings and their pointless wars."

Tilera thought on his reply for a moment, "Even if their wars are against Nilfgaard?"

Frank sighed in exasperation. The girl had a point, but he was still not willing to put them in that same spot as he did many years before. "In this case, yes."

Tilera braved the ire of her master and kept her stand on the matter, "But master, if the Cintrans lose the war, won't the Black Ones turn this kingdom into a slaughterhouse? We have a chance to prevent that."

Frank frowned in disapproval, but he thought on his student's words before replying again. He didn't want to turn the Punishers into a mercenary guild, for that would demean their purpose and disrespect the memory of the two good people he buried months before. But he certainly could not allow the Nilfgaardians to march into the land and continue their rampage against the common folk. Tilera was right, they needed to be defended.

But then, how could he do that without directly becoming involved in the war of the North?

"We'll continue this later, Tilera." Frank declared, "I have to think on it."

His student nodded her head and carried on with her duties, leaving Frank alone to toss the idea about in his mind while the Punishers turned in for the night. Just then, the old dwarven scientist Lenny came to Frank and excitedly revealed his latest creation. Following the dwarf down to the courtyard, Frank gazed on in amazement at the completed cannon sitting all shiny and polished in the middle of the yard. It wasn't one of the smooth-bore cannons of Earth's early pre-Industrial age, this one was just as advanced as early 19th Century howitzer cannons, albeit shapened according to the culture of this world. It was like something out of a steampunk magazine, otherworldly and yet all too familiar.

"Whoa." He turned to Lenny, "Have you tested it?"

"All day and all night!" The dwarf bubbled, "I've corrected every possible flaw I could find- and by the stars there were a lot of them- and here's the finished product! I've written everything down to make it easier for mass production."

Frank grinned, obviously impressed by the dwarf's dedication to his work. Cannons took centuries to be perfected, ranging from a crude fire-lance design by the Chinese and little by little reshaped into the powerful howitzers of the modern era. Now, all the dwarf needed to do was make a smaller version. From hand cannon to even a revolver, Frank could be patient with the long process. He didn't care much for the time, just as long as he would be granted a measure of the arsenal he used to have back on Earth. "Great work, Lenny."

"So." The dwarf grinned and put his hands together, "When are we going to use it?"

Frank turned to watch Tilera and her siblings gather at the castle entrance, busy talking with one another and turning their weapons in to be resharpened and cleaned. "How soon can you fix up a harness for the cannon?"

"Cannon?" Lenny looked at the Earthshaker, "Oh. So that's what it's called."

"Lenny."

"Right! Um, a harness, Mister Castle? What for?"

"For ease of mobility, have it horse-drawn instead of being moved about by hand." Frank pointed out, "I'm thinking it's time we actively participated in this war against Nilfgaard."

"Hmm, a horse-drawn cannon would be the most practical solution." Lenny thought out loud as he imagined what the upgrade to his creation would look like, "Has to be strong enough a tether to keep from breaking away in a pinch. I'll need to assemble a trained crew to operate it."

"You'll be the one operating it, Professor." Frank declared.

"What?" Lenny adjusted his spectacles at the interruption.

"I said you'll be the one operating it." Frank repeated, "I'll keep you out of harm's way and out of the thick of it."

The excitement of having to witness the destructive capabilities of the war machine outweighed his instinctive fear of being in danger, so Lenny could not refuse. "Oh I have no doubt you'd do your utmost to keep me safe. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd better get back to work."

**}!{**


	8. Death of a King

**An update so soon? Yes yes, I'm hyped, hence the early update. Also, I'm a little frustrated as of late. Been watching GOT S8E1-6 over and over again, not gonna spoil too much, but I'm definitely gonna ignore THAT happened. Anyways, enough rambling, that's not what you're here for.**

**}!{**

The sun shone again over the bloodstained rocky pass leading into the Marnadal Stairs, revealing scores of dead and rotting soldiers. Like a grand, surrealistic painting with blood red as the primary colour, painted by some mad artist, both nilfgaardian and cintran warriors lay close to one another with their final actions etched on stiffened muscles as if eternally locked in the battle that inevitably meant their end.

The Cintran Army was exhausted, battered near to submission, whereas their nilfgaardian oppressors barely felt the sting of their losses. The black tide rose ever higher, threatening to drown King Eist and his loyal soldiers. All the eagerness of the earliest days of battle faded with each bout, and the disheartened king soon saw those born with the weakest wills desert him overnight. His generals, livid at the cowardice of the lesser men, urged him to make an example of them. Eist refused, knowing that the end was near. He opted to be remembered as a merciful ruler all his life, he would not change it now even as he stared certain death in the face.

His wounds were being dressed by his squires when the spymaster arrived from his quest to bring aid from the ghosts responsible for the deaths of the nilfgaardians at Sudduth. Eist only had to look at the crestfallen expression on his friend's face to know that he had failed in his task, and so he hung his head wearily and sighed. "It's good to see you in one piece, Strauss."

"My lord, I-

Eist held up his hand, "The gods have made their will known. I will not object."

The spymaster choked down his impulsive desire to sneer at the religious convictions of the king, "My lord, defeat is sure, but we can still pull back to Cintra. Defending the walls of a city can be more manageable than defending a rocky pass."

Eist looked up at him through the bandage draped across his right eye, the despair was clear in his gaze as he spoke. "If we do that, Nilfgaard will spill into the North. Gaining the Marnadal Stairs gives them a foothold, only for more of them to come and drown us out. Cintra will be destroyed, and our memory will be blotted out of the history books."

"But if we cannot hold them here, and I tell you we can't, it wouldn't matter in the least if we die trying." Strauss replied as he knelt beside his friend, "If we commit what is left of our resources to defend Cintra, we just might hold out long enough for Redania and Temeria to send aid. Our odds of success will increase tenfold if such a plan is put into action."

"My king." The flap of the tent was drawn aside as the generals poured in, all dressed for battle. "It's time."

"Time?" Spymaster Ubrich Strauss looked back and forth at the king and his advisers, "Eist, what did you do?"

King Eist Tuirseach of Skellige and Cintra rose up and adjusted his breastplate. In the week that his friend had gone, his appeal for aid from both neighboring kingdoms Temeria and Redenia had been rebuffed. Whatever reason the foolish northern kings had to do so were lost on Eist, but it mattered little to him now. Suggestions for surrender were put on hold the whole time he had kept the Marnadal Stairs in a tight grip, but now that everything was going wrong he felt ever more certain that resisting Nilfgaard would only result in defeat. Running back to the safety of the walls of Cintra would only send the Nilfgaardians into a rage, and no mercy would be granted to the people within.

Time had weathered down the unyielding skelligehn nature in him, and more often than not, Eist thought of the greater good that was the future of his subjects. Submission to Nilfgaard meant he would give up his crown, and with it all autonomy of the Cintran kingdom. But then, they would live, and perhaps prosper even under the iron hand of the Empire. Wasn't the security of his subjects the sworn duty of his kingship?

It was an old argument, one that he had discussed at length with both his fearless wife Calanthe and his advisers. "Yes, my friend. I shall fly the flags of parlay, that I might discuss terms of surrender with the Nilfgaardians."

The shock on Strauss' face was quite evident, one that soon turned to anger that was just as quickly snuffed out. The spymaster knew the king was wise beyond his comprehension, and he dared not question his command. Not here, not now. "I will go with you. If it is a surrender you wish, I will see it through alongside you."

"Thank you, old friend." Eist said with a smile.

* * *

Temperatures flared as the hot sun beat down upon the bloodied earth, causing the freshly carved mud to cake and harden into clay, making it easier for the dark-clad army of the Nilfgaardian Center Army Group to tread upon the Northern soil. The cintran defenders had given ground finally, and the Black Ones took advantage of the respite granted to them by pressing onwards to the narrow rocky pass that was the Marnadal Stairs.

Field Marshal Menno Coehoorn, together with the other commanders of the Imperial Army, gathered for a small meeting to discuss the matter at hand- the terms brought upon by the surrender of the Cintran Army. It was a short gathering, for the decision had already been made before being said. Coehoorn was known for his cruelty and conniving ways, and so it didn't come as a surprise that the impulsive officer gave in to his whims and declared that there would be no surrender but a slaughter.

However, his decision was backed by somewhat strategic thinking. He defended that King Eist was not the problem that needed solving, but the true power behind the throne of Cintra was in the hands of Queen Calanthe, who remained safe behind the walls of the capital city miles away from the Marnadal Stairs. Eist would prove troublesome, even as a prisoner. Keeping him alive would never break the will of the cintrans, and so he needed to be killed. He ignored the warnings of some of his officers who said that cornering Cintra would prove costly to the army, more than they had seen here at the Stairs.

"Let's give him a creative ending." Coehoorn said as he concluded his meeting with the commanders. "Come, let us finish this battle and move on to more comfortable soil."

The flags for parlay were waved, and King Eist with all his bodyguards and two of his generals rode out to meet the Nilfgaardian emissaries.

* * *

"Master." Tilera said as she looked through the spyglass. "I see the man, the one from the forest."

"He called himself Ubrich Strauss." Frank said with a nod.

The Punishers reached the wide valley at the mouth of the Marnadal Stairs, and just by looking at the state of both armies pressing for its control, Frank knew that the Cintran Army was on the losing end. He came to tip the scales in favor of the lesser evil in this war, just so that the innocents wouldn't have to face the Nilfgaardian occupation's harrowing effects. He had the tools to do just that, one of them being the first howitzer cannon built and drawn to view by the dwarven engineer and his crew of young Punishers.

Lennicord Dunsten was rubbing his hands absentmindedly, and his eyes gleamed with excitement. "Who shall be at the receiving end of Little Hansel?"

Frank looked at him with incredulity. "Little Hansel?"

"Yah, I had to give it a name."Lenny shrugged, "So how about it?"

Frank didn't answer just yet, and turned back to Tilera, "What else do you see?"

The young woman looked through the spyglass again. This time, she saw the two groups meeting at the middle of the valley suddenly scatter as though something spooked the horses. Tilera frowned as she spied Ubrich Strauss, and that bandaged man on the horse next to him, turn heel and gallop back to the safety of the Marnadal Stairs. Several crossbowmen had crept up through the dense underbrush, concealed behind hills of dead soldiers, and had ambushed the Cintran emissaries just as they moved to meet with the Nilfgaardians' own. That bandaged man couldn't be anyone else but the king himself, with the way everyone swarmed in to defend him from the ensuing enemy fire. Tilera reported in everything she had seen, and now saw the king take a crossbow bolt to the back as he rode to the mouth of the Stairs. His coterie of officers and bodyguards were all killed in the flight home.

It was Frank's turn to frown now, "Lenny, are we in range?"

"For an accurate fire, yes." The dwarf replied.

Little Hansel was equipped with the equivalent of high-explosive shells, with the added bonus of the volatile nature of Lenny's formula. Frank noted that its effects were more akin to white-phosphorous ordnance that the US government was fond of using against insurrectionists in the Middle East. Extreme measures at taking good care of these impromptu weapons of mass destruction were implemented as heavily as his brisk daily training of the young men and women under his care, for Frank had no desire to have some random bomb going off on his watch.

So far, none of his fears were realized, and nobody at the castle had lost life or limb to their own weapons just yet.

"Begin your barrage, I'm going over to have a talk with the boys." Frank instructed.

Lenny practically jumped at the command and roused his crew to begin the task of loading, aiming and firing the massive artillery construct. The cannon slammed down on its breech assembly and bellowed a deafening roar as the shell was launched in a nice little arc over the battlefield, from the safe enclosure of the Punisher's deployment site up to the nilfgaardian position, at a seemingly impossible reach of 6 kilometers! For the first and only cannon in the world, it was quite an achievement, which alas, was recognized only by the perceptive dwarven engineer.

The lads and lasses operating the gun, however, just stared slack-jawed at the destructive capabilities of the new weapon.

Frank nodded once in approval and walked over to the Punishers awaiting his command. Ten Men Kell stood with his katana unsheathed and resting upon his shoulder. The tall man regarded his students closely as he addressed them, "Today's the day we reveal ourselves to the world. Nilfgaard has a debt to pay. In their cities, in their towns and in their houses. In their high castles, and even on the battlefields. We come to collect."

The Punishers looked on in silence. Not a single lad or lass was eager to shed blood, and Frank was thankful for such an attitude. It was a chore, not a game, and it needed to be done with due reverence.

Frank adjusted his coat just as the next shell was loaded, aimed, and fired. His iconic white skull bristled upon the ballistic vest at all who would lay eyes on it. In response, the Punishers donned their masks and mounted their horses, animals salvaged from abandoned farms and broken towns from all around, trained to serve the cause of the vindicators.

No cheers were sounded, no chilling battlecries were uttered. Only a stoic silence, one that befitted the ghosts of Sudduth, could be heard from the Punishers. Frank Castle himself rode at the head of them as they moved to save the king and his spymaster as the assassins of Nilfgaard moved for the kill.

* * *

Chaos ensued as massive explosions of searing, white-hot clouds of burning ash rained on the marching throng. Every two minutes, another explosion would go off in the middle of a formation somewhere in the wide sea of black that was the Nilfgaardian Army. Officers called for a tactical scatter, only to be rebuffed as soon as the next round would strike at their confused and frightened men.

"Where the fuck is that coming from?!" Lieutenant Gimseih yelled as he watched his comrades reel in terror as the unquenchable fires ate through their armor and set them alight. Deafening bellows sounded off at random points, destabilizing the usually orderly fashion that the Nilfgaardians boasted of. Not even the charisma of the officers could rouse the battle-spirit of the soldiers at that point. "Is it a dragon?! A mage?! Someone talk to me!"

His answer came a lot quicker than expected, and the lieutenant was violently thrown off his horse as the bolt struck directly beneath his mount's feet! The horse screamed piteously as the resulting explosion tore off both its front legs and tossed both animal and rider backwards into the charred earth. Gimseih groaned, then cried out in agony as the same white fires chewed clean through his armor and onto his flesh. "Someone help me! Put out the fire!" The lieutenant's cries were drowned out as the panic-stricken soldiers trampled him in their flight to get clear off the killzone.

In the distance, King Eist, though faint from blood loss, heard the screams and distant thunder of the unknown barrage. He looked on with a half-lidded eye as the spymaster busied himself with fending off their assassins in the small hill they had come to take shelter in. Eist's horse was struck down by a stray bolt, and Strauss' own ran off when he jumped down to drag his friend to safety.

The spymaster drew his rapier and slashed at the first wave of assassins that appeared. More would come, but Strauss refused to go down without a fight.

Despairing over the loss of hope, Eist prayed for a quick end for both him and his friend, and that the Nilfgaardians would be merciful- if mercy was ever one of their virtues- to his beloved Calanthe and Cintra.

Strauss whirled around in surprise at the curious thunder echoing in the distance, as did the assassins for a moment. They looked on in shock as the first line of the nilfgaardian formation scattered as they were on the receiving end of a fiery barrage. Then, their moment of distraction faded, and Strauss engaged the assassins once more.

Though the years had dulled his edge, the spymaster knew how to fight dirty. Every time an assassin would close the distance as his companion busied himself with the spymaster, Strauss would judge his movements foolish and thrust a well hidden dagger through his heart with a quick flip of the hand. The spymaster weaved in and out of the fight, with less finesse as he once possessed, but proved greater than his would-be killers' own.

Suddenly, the telltale clopping of furiously galloping hooves reached the ears of all who fought on that fateful hill. A barely audible swish of something solid striking something soft sounded through the air, followed by a dull thud of something heavy falling to the ground. Strauss turned around to see the headless corpse of one of the assassins collapse behind him, with its hands still clutching tight to the longsword aimed for his back!

His savior leaped off his horse and tumbled neatly across the grassy plain, blade at the ready as the last wave of the assassins closed in for their quarry. More arrived from behind the hill, all dressed as similar as the stranger- black with a frightening visage of a skull on their masks.

"You?" Strauss blurted as the 'Ghosts of Sudduth Valley' dispatched their assailants with ease. Their leader, a large man upon a black steed who didn't bother masking himself, ignored the spymaster as he regarded the dying king.

He jumped down from his horse and approached Eist, who managed to fit a grateful smile into his quivering lips. "Thank...you."

The man knelt beside Eist and inspected the wound on the king. The bolt was still there, with its steel tip protruding from the king's belly. Blood kept trickling free from both his stomach and his back. His expression grew dark as he spoke, the telltale accent reminding Strauss that this was the same man he spoke to in the forest. "You're going to die."

"I know..." Eist's mouth dripped with blood and saliva, teeth saturated with crimson as he gritted them together through the pain. He felt his strength slipping, his wounds were growing numb, and he knew his time was short. He beckoned Strauss to come near and relayed his final order, "My friend, it's up to you now. Gather the men and return home. Save our people, whatever it takes."

Strauss regarded his liege with sadness, "Yes, my lord."

"And you..." Eist turned to the stranger, "Your name...I pray."

"Frank, Frank Castle."

"Sir Castle, I do not know you, yet I know what I must ask is not born of a whim." Eist rasped, "I dare to assume...you know what family means."

Frank nodded slowly.

"I ask you, not as a king but as a husband and father, to protect my wife...and my granddaughter." The king gasped, struggling hard against the icy fingers of death upon his throat. "They are all I have left."

The Punisher didn't even hesitate to make his promise, "I will."

At peace with his answer, King Eist gave up the fight and died.

**}!{**


	9. The Citadel

**}!{**

Calanthe drew the curtain aside by just a bit, to gaze down upon the crowded streets of the citadel. Dissatisfied by the sight of the peasants scurrying about, with no one available to bring her news of how her husband fared, and what would become of their besieged kingdom. The queen was old in years, but the elder blood in her refused to let it show. By earthly standards, she didn't look a day older than forty.

The faint flutter of papers being flitted away in the wind reached her ears, Calanthe turned around to look at her granddaughter. Little Ciri was busy reading a book, one of the few things she was allowed to do while the castle remained barred and the city prepared for the worst. She was bored out of her little mind with all that was going on, Calanthe had been through enough to know how that felt. Her ladies-in-waiting sat in their chairs beside the bed Ciri was on, busying themselves with their crochets or the little books of their own. A little while later, a knock on the door brought the queen's attention to her visitor, and soon her long awaited message arrived- though it reported not what she expected would occur.

The army had returned from battle, having suffered a devastating defeat at the hands of Nilfgaard.

Queen Calanthe felt the blood rush from her face, and she steadied herself upon the door's threshold as her messenger whispered the news to her. They were coming for Cintra next, the survivors of the conflict would return within the hour, and it was advised that she either left the city within the day or hold fast while word was sent to the North to petition for aid. At this, Queen Calanthe received the message with a cold stare and a fervently burning heart. The decision will wait. She was the Queen, and she would grieve her husband's death before deciding on anything else.

"Mami?" Ciri's softspoken words reached her ears, and Calanthe looked down as the ashen-haired girl approached her. "Is something wrong?"

Calanthe despaired at the thought of having to break the news to her so soon. But before she could answer, a loud noise in the street- the blaring of a herald's trumpet- forced the queen and her handmaidens to venture out of the room to look on from the balcony.

* * *

All eyes turned to the main road leading from the massive steel-grilled gates that would soon serve as the only barrier between Nilfgaard and the people of Cintra. The people, remembering the day their beloved king marched out of the citadel to lead their armies against the Black Ones barely weeks before, now looked on in horror as the bloody carts carrying the corpses of fallen officers, nobles and guardsmen rolled in, followed by the crestfallen and wounded. Since there remained no cart to be used exclusively for the dead monarch, and withheld by religious convictions from being put together with the bodies of commoners and mere soldiers, King Eist was buried hastily in a cave to be retrieved later. His crown was brought to the citadel to be presented before Queen Calanthe, the Lioness of Cintra.

The one who bore it, Spymaster Ubrich Strauss, would not let Frank and his Punishers to slip away. Though he did not force him, Strauss convinced the stoic vindicator to lend his aid to the city by appealing to whatever honor the stranger held.

On Frank's part, however, he never revealed the weapon he used against the armies of the Black. To him, it was the one edge he had against the people of this world, and he wasn't about to let them in on his secret. Instructions were swiftly carried that the weapon remain hidden in the wealds of the city outskirts, to be heavily guarded and to be used only at his command. Tilera would act as his messenger, delivering his orders to the Punishers in the woods who eagerly awaited his command. He played the part of ally well, standing at Strauss' side when they both dismounted and approached the queen. The spymaster grimly unveiled the crown he carried, the gesture never failing in drawing horrified gasps and agonized cries from all who bore witness, and slowly closed the distance between himself and the one monarch to rule them all.

He knelt before his queen, as did all the other nobles.

The only one who didn't bother, as was his nature, was Frank- much to the annoyance and anger of those around him. Ten Men Kell eyed him with astonishment, but said nothing.

Firstly, Frank was an American. Secondly, Frank was Frank, and he bowed to no one.

Still reeling from this revelation, Queen Calanthe didn't bother addressing the issue as most monarchs would. Instead, she took the crown from Strauss' hands and spoke with as much of a firm tone her current composure would allow. "You have done well to bring us this news, Spymaster, grievous though it be." She paused, taking a moment to hide her overwhelming sadness with a veneer of strength for the people to see. "Did the King have any final words for his people?"

"His last thoughts were for you, your Highness." Strauss replied, "He wanted, above all, that you and the princess remain safe."

"And you." Calanthe turned to the Punisher, her eyes fell upon the bristling skull painted on his vest. Her brow arched, for she had never seen that type of coat-of-arms before, and she'd seen plenty. The man was not of Cintra, or else she'd have known of this one in her long years as queen. "What is your part in all this?"

Frank's grizzled, biting voice answered gruffly. "The king made me promise to protect you. I'm here to keep it."

"Your Grace, this is the man responsible for turning the tide of the battle, to give the survivors a chance to march back to the citadel." Strauss explained, "And though King Eist still fell, he is the reason why I am able to return with his crown."

At this, Queen Calanthe frowned. "And what could one man do that which my army cannot? I will not trust my well being or that of my family in the hands of a stranger, regardless of what my dearly-departed husband made him promise. An empty crown and a failed attempt at saving Eist does not fill me with confidence." Turning heel and waving her hand dismissively, the queen walked back into the safety of her castle. "Come, my lords! I have need of your aid in finding a solution to this mess!"

Strauss looked at Frank apologetically on the queen's behalf and followed her in, "Yes, your Grace."

Left alone in the streets, watching as the crowds dispersed to prepare themselves for an impending long siege, Ten Men Kell made an O with his lips and whistled, "Hmmm...She seems like quite the character."

"She's grieving." Frank sighed, knowing how tense one could become in the face of despair. He understood perfectly what was on the queen's mind. The weight of the crown, the fates of the people in her kingdom, and the realization that without her husband she would have to brave this alone, took its toll on her. And so, he let that one slide. "I've had worse receptions." The two walked off and disappeared into the busy cobblestone pathways stretching between miles and miles of stone and wooden buildings.

"Wanna get a drink at the local tavern?" Kell offered, "Journey's been long, and I'm feeling rather parched. I could use the company."

Frank shook his head, "I need to keep my head straight. There's going to be a lot of fighting to be done soon, it's best if I remain sober."

"Suit yourself." Kell said with a shrug, "I'll find you when I've finished."

* * *

Contrary to Queen Calanthe's resolution in the war against Nilfgaard, Cintra wouldn't stand alone in the face of the black tide. The pleas for aid were answered by the kingdom's closest neighbor, the kingdom of Temeria. Foltest, Prince of Sodden and ruling patriarch of the Temerian dynasty, sprang to action when news reached him of the Nilfgaardian invasion of the North. Knowing full well that Emperor Emrys would not halt his advance upon reaching Cintra, and that soon Temeria itself would be next, the wisest solution was to lend a hand to the sorely lacking Cintran kingdom and hope that in so doing would improve relations between them.

While the majority of Foltest's armies slowly marched just a thousand miles away from the Cintran capital, his most trusted emissaries were dispatched to ride with the Cintran messengers back home. Among them was the most gifted member of Foltest's royal council, the powerful sorceress Triss Merigold of Maribor. The mage took up her task with an eager hand, for she out of all the members of the inner court recognized the good in saving Cintra from its plight. She wished to protect Queen Calanthe, whom she maintained close connection with in spite of the turbulent times they shared in regards to the tensions between Temeria and Cintra.

A friend was in need, and she would answer.

Triss arrived at the capital two days after news of Eist's devastating defeat at the Stairs reached them on the road, and she found the citadel heavily fortified and well prepped for a long siege. Sending the cintran messengers forward to announce their arrival, Triss waited at a safe distance with her coterie of escorts and fellow mages of the Lodge.

"Halt! Not another step!" The booming voice of a guardsman at the wall shouted down at the messengers. About a hundred archers were at the walls and towers, bows ready to rain arrows upon any who would come near. Before unnecessary blood was spilled, the emissaries cried out. "Peace, kinsman!" The messengers flew the standards of their kingdom for all to see, and were allowed entry shortly. The Temerians were welcomed inside, and were received better than the Punisher as Queen Calanthe gave voice to her relief at the much needed lent aid.

Calanthe brought her friend to the barracks in order to inspect the troops stationed at the citadel. Though many had been wounded in the battle at the Stairs, many cintran soldiers were insistent on honing their skills at the training yards. Healers were kept busy restoring the stubborn warriors to the point that many began dropping out of exhaustion, a fact that Triss was determined to address by lending her aid in healing the wounded soldiers.

"It's good to see you again, your Grace."

Calanthe allowed the younger woman to slip her arm around her own, and grasped her hand firmly as they walked atop the balcony. "You being here is a much needed balm upon my wounded soul, Lady Merigold. The pain of Eist's passing remains ever strong, and I am doing all I can to console little Cirilla. She misses him terribly."

"Is she faring well despite the horrors of these times?" Triss asked.

"I keep her busy with the books, and instructed her tutor to watch her like a hawk should she try to slip away into the gardens again." Calanthe sighed wearily, "These days, I cannot feel upset over the dear one's antics, only look on and adore her even more now that we're the only ones left." Later, the queen's eyes lit up. "But now that you're here, it would be refreshing for her to see a familiar face."

"That's a good idea, your Grace." Triss said with a warm smile, "I shall visit her this afternoon once I've assisted the healers with the wounded."

"You're welcome to come and go as you like. Should anyone stop you, they will answer to me." Calanthe said as she bade the sorceress goodbye, "Farewell, I shall retire now. This damnable summer heat's making me sweat like a hog!"

Triss wandered off into the courtyards of the barracks, doing as she promised by assisting the healers whenever she could. Most of the work had been finished in advance by the diligent masters of the healing arts, so the young mage was soon left with little else to do. She decided to stroll elsewhere, in hopes of meeting any familiar faces.

She happened upon a group of curiously dressed warriors in nightmare black, gathered around in a circle in some secluded portion of the barracks. Triss leaned on a nearby wooden beam that supported the balcony she had walked alongside the queen, and watched intently to see what was going on. These warriors were all boys and girls, barely out of their teenage years, much to the mage's surprise! Teens in age, but the way they carried themselves and those looks that spoke of innocence broken...

Those battlescars on their faces and arms. These boys and girls weren't children, not anymore.

In the middle of the circle, a tall man wrestled with a young woman half his size. The woman's face was heavily disfigured on one side, the telltale marks of a hideous burn were evident on her skin. The corner of her lip, melted off from the old injury, twisted into a snarl as she fought to free herself of the firm and muscular arms folded around her neck. The scene reminded Triss of the time she spent in the witcher school of Kaer Morhen, except this one was fought by mere men, not witchers.

The woman, owing to her impressive finesse and small frame, quickly slipped out of the chokehold and vaulted her opponent over her shoulder. The man landed onto the hard floor with a loud grunt, and the circle of warriors nodded their approval of the result. Standing close to the circle was another man, this one distinguished by a frightening white skull that was painted onto his vest. The material could easily be mistaken for leather, but Triss knew better.

The young ones referred to him as master, and with practiced hands he instructed them in the delicate art of combat. Triss had been around, but never seen the unique features his mysterious ethnicity brought. A combination of the rare brown eyes, a shock of unruly black hair, hard and chiseled cheekbones that could give the elves a run for their money. Yet, there wasn't a hint of elder blood in him.

His piercing, searching eyes spotted her, and a deep frown furrowed his brow. As he halted in his teachings, his students caught his gaze and stared after the sorceress spying on them.

Not at all wishing to provoke the warriors in black, Triss retreated swiftly from the courtyard and back into the safety of the crowded triage. There, she caught the attention of some of the officers, acquaintances she had formed in her years as a member of Foltest's court. She inquired of the mysterious group training in the yard, and remained even more baffled by the answer.

"Those lot? Avoid them like the plague, Miss Merigold. They call themselves the Punishers, not right in the head those boys and girls." The officer she was speaking to said with a disapproving shake of the head, "Queen Calanthe lets them stay on account of their leader saving our boys on the frontlines when Nilfgaard attacked."

"Then...what's so bad about them?"

"Ah, it's just a feeling is all. I feel like we just opened the gates and let a pack of wolves into our home."

**}!{**


	10. The Fall of Cintra

**Been putting this one off for a while now, just updating to let my readers know it's not dead...yet :) Also, I have to warn my readers about something, updates may come slower than usual in my other fics due to the calamities here Down Under. All I can say is that every bit contributed to those harmed by the fires, every little bit, even prayers, they help a lot and count.**

**}!{**

Wolves. Dangerous but fascinating creatures.

Lady Merigold knew this better than most, she was friends with one. No one in the city had seen the Punishers before, and the local legends that spoke of them were highly unreliable as they largely contradicted each other or were downright silly. Still, hearing them from the talkative guardsmen or officers provided adequate amusement to the sorceress as she took them all into account.

They weren't witchers nor sorcerers, but the things she heard they were able to do surpassed those that any normal man could. This made her curious, naturally, and the sorceress sought every opportunity throughout the time she was in the city to learn more about this peculiar group. It wasn't entirely curiosity driving her to go out of her way to pry, but an opportunistic mentality that largely ruled her actions as befitting a member of Foltest's court.

She would not be the only one.

Catching their leader outside the training yard or away from his underlings was especially hard to do, and every time she got her chance, Cintra's Royal Spymaster Ubrich Strauss was there, beating her to the catch. It made sense too, it wasn't every day someone would get an elite group of fighters capable of eliminating whole companies overnight at their disposal. Although, something about this one told Triss that the Punishers were not the kind to answer to any authority but their own.

A very familiar trait, shared by a certain fading monster-hunter order.

"So why exactly are you called the Punishers, Sir Franque?" Strauss asked the bigger man, who looked as if the inquiry had lit a fuse in him and he was ready to explode.

Frank Castle turned around to face the spymaster and stared him down, "The name is all the reason why. I leave the interpretation of that to you." With that said, the man turned heel and walked away. When he reached a certain distance into a secluded spot behind the cobblestone arches that stretched across the city aqueduct, the eavesdropping Triss, following the Punisher after his rebuttal of the spymaster, watched as Frank received a wrapped package from one of his students.

"Master Lenny had these made for you." The lad who delivered them said, showing a box filled with metal sticks the size of a child's little finger. "He said he wasn't able to create your weapon, but he was at least able to recreate these."

Frank looked the bullets over and smiled with great satisfaction. For someone who had never crafted bullets before, and had just seen them recently, Lennicord the Dwarven Engineer showed his capability and delivered as promised. The .45 Auto, John Moses Browning's brainchild, and now this world's exact counterparts...

Now if Lenny was able to make his gun, and soon...

Frank bagged the box and patted the lad on the arm. "Good work. Go back to the others, break's over. We train again."

"But they're exhausted, master."

"Exactly how I want them to be." Frank replied, "Now, we test your endurance." The Punisher turned to inspect his prize and fished out an empty magazine to test the compatibility of the rounds into the chamber. Finding them so, Frank grinned. Although he would be the only one to use the gun in this world for the moment, it was another edge he had against Nilfgaard and all those who preyed on the weak. He imagined this weapon would be highly sought after by anyone, especially Nilfgaard. He had to protect its secrets, otherwise the ghosts of the dead crying out for justice will never be silenced.

Frank's thoughts turned back to Anaia and her father, and many others he had yet to avenge.

It was fitting that he landed in the middle of a war, as he _punishes _the wicked. People will have too much to think about while he and his underlings get to work.

* * *

The Nilfgaardian main army had been sighted moving through the wealds outside Cintra. The vanguard could be seen from the walls. Though they had suffered substantial losses in the battle of the Marnadal Stairs, their numbers proved to be enough to overwhelm the city's defenders and it showed through the amassed sea of flesh and iron that swelled atop the valley. Upon seeing Cintra, the army was given the command to march forward. Menno Coehoorn, intent on proving to his rivals at court and the Emperor himself that the war was in good hands, rushed the city to prevent the northerners from rallying against the onslaught. He didn't even bother setting up siege weapons nor set up a primary base camp, he wasn't there to prolong the assault but to deliver a swift conclusion that the campaign might proceed with its other phases.

As the army neared the walls, they were met with a steady hail of arrows and ballista missiles that greatly slowed their advance. Also, with the arrival of the sorceress Triss Merigold and her accompanying party of fellow mages, it proved difficult for the nilfgaardians to even set foot within ten meters of the walls as fire and lightning rained down on them from above. Seeing their dilemma, the Marshall ordered the Empire's finest mages to counter the magical front and shield the advance through their negating barriers.

Throughout the battle, the roar of bloodthirsty soldiers reached the ears of the scattering city-folk. Already, the peasants have barricaded themselves into their homes and basements, allowing the Cintran defenders to have clear way of the streets. Heavy makeshift barricades of crates, boxes and barrels with wooden stakes stuck between them, were set up on every turn and every corridor. This worked well for the Punishers, who unbeknownst to their Cintran allies swelled with a number of skilled marksmen. Frank, having been granted the use of a messenger hawk, sent his message to the hidden artillery crew in the forests outside the city, ordering them to fire upon the nilfgaardians only when they've breached the gates to the city. He intended to inflict as much damage to the army by hitting them when they've clustered together, maximizing the effects of Lennicord's compound.

As the incessant hammering of the massive iron and steel gates reverberated across the abnormally quiet street, the Punishers took position atop the roofs and windows at key positions to provide the ground forces with better cover. Frank had much to train them with, but the little he had taught them was enough to create the Continent's finest warriors. Experience was the only tempering factor left to them, and the Punisher knew that this battle would provide more than enough for his students.

The quiet was soon broken as the weary soldiers soundly began praying to their gods. Some prayed for salvation, others for intercession into the afterlife, and some others for blood. Ten Men Kell chuckled upon hearing them, finding great amusement that the fear of death had so tight a grip upon mortal men. It was easy for him to shrug it off, after all, one could get close to death so many times and eventually lose all respect for it. Having a drink and a long night at the brothel certainly helped.

A massive explosion at the top of the walls rocked the streets as a conjured firebolt lanced from the nilfgaardian mage groups and detonated on impact. Clouds of dust and splinters of wood scattered into the street, then a small portal opened next to where Frank and the mercenaries hired by Ubrich Strauss stood, out of it came Triss Merigold and what was left of her party. The sorceress looked as if she sustained a few minor injuries during the initial defense against the nilfgaardian advance, but never seemed to be all too bothered by them. "They've reached the gates. All defenders are rallying back to the keep to defend the royal family." She warned, "It won't be long before the army breaks through. I'd advise against staying here to avoid the crush of the ensuing charge."

"And that's why you leave the strategies to the officers, right milady?" A sergeant replied gruffly, rebuffing the advice completely. He turned to his men and drew his sword, "Alright lads, you all know what to do. We die here today, fighting to slow the Black Ones' advance. For the Queen, and the North!" There was no rallying cry nor cheer, just a solemn nod from every head and a resolute stare into their approaching end. They were committed to fulfilling their duty defending the city, if they could buy the Queen time for reinforcements to come their ends would be a good bargain.

Frank, on the other hand, knew better than to throw his and the life of his Punishers away for something so cheap. With a turn of his heel, the big man climbed past the barricades and disappeared into an alley. Triss, thinking he was heading for the keep, decided to follow with her party sticking close. The mages soon found the Punishers busying themselves with booby-trapping the houses and narrow corridors with explosives, realization dawning on them that the dark-clad warriors were intent on making the nilfgaardian advance as painful as possible.

"Shouldn't you be somewhere else?"

Triss looked up at Frank and replied, "I thought you'd be heading there too."

The man shook his head, "I can't save these people from Nilfgaard when they come to sack the city. But I sure as hell won't make it easy on them."

"Come with us, you can at least save the Queen and the court." The sorceress said.

"I think we should concentrate on providing a route of escape instead." Kell suggested, "If the Black Ones breach the walls and pour into Cintra, the city is lost."

"Should've thought about that before they reached the city in the first place." Frank muttered, although remembering how cityfolk generally thought about running. The confidence they've shown to the army and the promise of reinforcements kept most of them from fleeing, and this would undoubtedly prove to be their downfall. "You go ahead, Kell. Take some of the kids with you, I'm sticking around for a little while longer."

"Alright then. See you later." Kell said his farewell and trotted down the street and disappeared into the city, leaving Frank and his Punishers to face the brunt of the Nilfgaardian assault.

* * *

Already, the sound of the gates straining against the hammering of armored battering rams could be heard a quarter of a kilometer away from the walls. Minutes later, the telltale groan of wood and steel stretching and breaking apart told the cintran defenders to brace up and prepare for the oncoming onslaught. The dark-clad armored invaders from the south spilled into the city streets with drawn steel in one hand and a torch in the other.

Firebolts conjured by the few mages left among the defenders were dispelled by the unmatched skill of the nilfgaardian sorcerers as they strove to protect their comrades until they smashed into the barricades and reached the keep. Staying clear from the crush of bodies high above the rooftops, the Punishers rained arrows and grenades into the sea of black until fire and blood filled the cobblestone street and smoke clogged the air above.

A man clad in a dark cloak, amply displaying a cuirass emblazoned with a vicious white skull, could be seen moving quickly from one fight to the next. He had forgone his sword for a fanged mace, taking advantage of the weapon's capability to smash through solid steel, and smashed nilfgaardian skull after nilfgaardian skull until the bodies piled up around like the surf when it pushed against the shore. Whenever someone tried to flank him, a well placed arrow would find its way into their faces, shot from a young one's bow atop the roofs. But even though the defenders fought valiantly, the nilfgaardian army was as vast as it was powerful, and gradually the defensive front shrank until at last they broke away and retreated further into the city.

Seizing the momentum, the nilfgaardians followed their enemies into the heart of Cintra, torching houses and dragging men and women into the streets to face judgement. Fathers and brothers were either executed or put to cart for transport, while mothers and sisters were taken to the alleys to be raped and butchered.

None were spared, but no action done went by unanswered.

As the hours of murder and pillage went, nilfgaardians disappeared one after another, their remains soon found covered in their own entrails and nailed to walls with daggers. High priority targets, such as officers and mages, were seemingly picked off my snipers as the army advanced further in. Then, when they crossed a certain street, curiously abandoned and bereft of life, a soldier tripped over a wire stretching from one end of the street to the other. A few seconds later, one massive chain of explosions rocked the city as whole companies were engulfed in flames! White burning smoke spread across every alley and corridor, crawling steadily up the ranks as the winds blew them down to sow even more chaos among the nilfgaardians.

Men and horses choked and staggered as the searing cloud melted flesh from the inside out. Helms and visors were melded shut, causing the unfortunate invaders to boil inside their own armor. They fell where they stood, and the surviving companies halted in their advance as they had to summon their mages to clear out the wall of fire.

Beyond the cloud of white, he could be seen standing atop a pile of toppled quarried stone. The man with the skull on his chest, with an unwavering glare on his face. Fear turned to ire as the nilfgaardians rushed forward once the clouds dissipated. Suddenly, the attackers found themselves thrown off their heels as an unseen wall of magic barred the way into the keep. Undeterred by this obstacle, the nilfgaardians set up their mobile ballista platforms and started hurling bolt after bolt in an attempt to find a weak spot in the barrier. The mages followed soon after, casting their most powerful spells to break the shield.

* * *

"That won't hold for long."

"I know." Triss let go of the staves and stepped back to survey the battlefield below from the window. She needn't say it, but casting the spell meant that there was no way out now for anyone in the keep. The sorceress had done all she could to slow the nilfgaardians until help arrived, but now it was too late. Cintra's allies were all too far away to help, the city would be lost in a matter of hours.

She would die, along with all the nobles trapped in the castle.

The doors opened, and an alchemist carrying a box filled with elixirs of black and blue, approached the sorceress and all the nobles present in the room. He handed each man and woman a vial, and gave one to Triss.

"What is this?" The sorceress inquired.

"Salvation." The alchemist replied, taking a knife to his throat and slicing a gash across it. His blood squirted out like a fountain and stained the horrified sorceress' face. Aghast beyond words, the woman watched as the nobles calmly walked back into their rooms to prepare for the end, likely to administer the poison to their children first before killing themselves.

"I refuse to die like that." One of the mages accompanying Triss growled, walking back to descend the stairs that he might die fighting alongside what was left of the cintran defenders. Triss, thought of doing the same and prepared to fight her last battle with them. As she walked down to join the defenders in the last struggle, Triss found an ashen-haired girl watching her intently from the staircase.

"I can't get to my Mami." The distraught child said as Triss moved to comfort her.

With a reassuring smile, Triss smoothed the girl's hair and said, "Don't worry, I'm sure she'll come back to fetch you in time. No one will be alone this day, I promise you."

"Then why did she lock her door?" The child asked.

Triss frowned and allowed the child to lead her upstairs, towards the queen's chambers. There, with a simple spell, the sorceress broke the door open and rushed in. There, she found the Lioness of Cintra, standing upon the ledge of her window. A quick inspection of the room showed bloodstains trickled on a neat little path from her bed to the window she now stood on, leading to the dagger digging deep in her bosom.

"Calanthe!" Triss gasped.

The queen turned slowly, her face tired and weakened from the blood loss. She had failed in her first attempt, she would succeed in the other. Her face grew sad as she realized her granddaughter would bear witness to her death. She had intended for this to be quick, and so that Cirilla would never have to think too much on her end. That, of course, would never happen now. "Goodbye, my sweet little flower."

With that, she let gravity do its work and leaped off the ledge.

* * *

Frank, upon circling around the keep to avoid the front gate, watched as the body plummeted down to earth, landing with a loud smack as it hit the cobblestone street. The corpse's face was smashed into a pulp like a rotten tomato, so he didn't recognize who it was at first. But upon seeing the distinctive robes of royalty on the body, Frank recoiled in horror and uttered a barrage of curses as he realized he had failed again.

"Well, at least you're relieved of that promise."

Frank glared at Ten Men Kell, who apparently had watched the entire scene unfold. "What the hell are you standing around for?"

"Found a way out." The man replied, taking a fallen standard of Cintra and covering the corpse respectfully as he explained himself. "I was planning to inform the queen and her people about it, but then... this happened."

"I'm not relieved of my promise just yet." Frank growled, moving to enter the keep for one final attempt to fulfill his oath to the dead king. He looked up to see the red-haired sorceress, and called to her. "Get down here, we've found a way out!"

Triss Merigold, seizing the chance presented to her, grabbed the princess and hurried down with all the guardsmen who had yet to kill themselves along with their now dead betters. She caught up with Frank and asked, "Alright then, where must we go?"

"There's a collapsed tunnel connected with the city's network of sewers." Kell informed, "The masons planned on excavating the ruins days before the invasion began, but stopped when the city was attacked. If we move quickly, we'd be able to unearth what's left and escape the city before the Black Ones get wise on us."

"Good work, how'd you find it?" Frank asked as they began moving in the directions indicated by the immortal.

"One can always pick up useful information in the most unlikeliest of places." Kell replied, referring to the dens and brothels of the city he so frequented.

"Right." Frank said, turning to give his order to the Punishers present. "Boys, girls, divide yourselves into two teams. One will help in excavating the rubble, and the other will cover the rear."

The Punishers nodded in unison and followed their master. The party moved quickly out of the safety of the keep grounds, beyond the magical barrier Triss put up, and marched in the direction of the sewers. Their escape did not go unnoticed, however, and a small squad of Imperial Knights rode down the street intent on killing anything and anyone of the city. The party, in response, scattered and allowed the riders to charge by without hitting a single one of them, forcing the knights to dismount and attack the party on foot when the streets they followed them in grew narrow, too narrow for horses to fit in.

Triss and the mages fought valiantly alongside the cintran guardsmen, but they were the first to be cut down as the knights prioritized them over the youths dressed in black. The sorceress soon found herself surrounded by the knights, and lashed out by casting a widespread of cloud of flame that blasted the knights away, save for their commander who proved to be well equipped for this particular situation.

His armor, enchanted by the finest craftsmen of the Empire, absorbed Triss' spells and converted it into strength, allowing the man to wield the might of ten men. Triss attempted to shield herself as the commander's blade descended, she recoiled in pain as the sword missed her face and instead struck her shoulder, tearing off a chunk of her flesh as a result. Ten Men Kell, seeing her dilemma, chose to stand in the way of the knight's wrath and attempted to stab through the chainmail protecting his neck.

The knight was quicker, due in no small part to his enchantments, and instead stabbed Kell.

Nursing her bleeding arm, Triss backed away and froze as a loud crack stung her ears.

The knight staggered forward as though he had been struck by lightning. Then another resounding crack, and the man's face seemed to burst out of his helmet's slits. The Punisher walked closer and pressed an oddly shaped metallic weapon to the knight's battered head, finger pressed to the trigger, and delivered another shot. A tremor shook the knight, and with an audible sigh, he dropped to the ground dead.

Triss stared dumbly at the man and mouthed a silent 'thank you'.

The man ignored her and flipped the dead knight onto his back. His eyes seemingly were drawn to the enchanted armor, and he bent down to relieve the corpse of its chestplate. Triss turned to look at Ten Men Kell, who was found nursing a large wound in his chest that would've proved fatal had he been mortal.

"Fucking hell, that stings!" The man gasped.

"Are you going to be alright?" Frank asked, slightly concerned for his companion.

Kell didn't answer, instead showing concern for their precious charge. "Where's the little one?"

Triss looked around, noticing the empty street and the missing princess. "Oh no..."

**}!{**


	11. The Search Begins

**}!{**

With the battle all but lost, the city, and consequently the kingdom, fell at the black hands of the Nilfgaardian Empire. The city was sacked, its inhabitants and defenders put to rout and scattered, then put to the torch as they moved to begin another step in the empire's grand campaign to seize the North. Hundreds perished, while hundreds more were clapped in irons, bound for slavery as the nilfgaardians hauled off their bounty.

Menno Coehoorn, after going through every report sent his way by his commanders, took note of the heavy cost the battles the army fought in and how it would put a strain on the overall performance in the campaign should he delay in taking the matter seriously. This matter, particularly, involving the elusive Punishers. Though the reports varied in their reliability, Coehoorn managed to narrow it all down by cross-referencing eye-witness accounts until he came upon a valid conclusion. The Punishers were an elite task force, possibly formed at the Queen's behest and answered to the crown of Cintra. They possessed advanced anti-infantry weapons, non-magical, but were capable of obliterating whole companies in a single volley. Coehoorn guessed they implemented shock-and-awe tactics to demoralize Cintra's enemies before they even faced the regulars, and clearly it worked for a little while.

To Coehoorn, it was a bold move from the Lioness of Cintra, but ultimately a delay of the inevitable. The kingdom still fell, and the Punishers' tactics paled in the face of the overwhelming tide of the empire's armies. It was like throwing rocks at the surf, plunging down only to be engulfed by the rushing wave. And for Nilfgaard, there was always another wave. Still, the Punishers seemed to have survived the slaughter and may prove to be a problem. It was not an overthought, but a strategic move. The Emperor's trust had been placed in the Field Marshal's hands, and he would see to it that everything must be addressed accordingly- with vigilance and cunning.

Their victory was celebrated with a night of revelry. Though overall, Coehoorn cared little for the subjugated and even less by the thought of how fair his hand was to them, the Field Marshal allowed his soldiers to take their pick among the more intact women prisoners. The plundered goods, such as the fine wine kegs and barrels hauled from far off Skellige, were distributed across the camp as the feast stretched from dusk till dawn. The air grew thick with tone-deaf songs borne on drunken lips, and smoke from roasting pigs. Frantic girls were dragged, beaten and carried into tents, left broken and weeping come the morn after the soldiers have had their fun.

Though some might see Coehoorn's reward as something not unheard of in that dark age, what he meant for the whole night of revelry made it all the more seem barbaric as he, in truth, wanted to test the rumors out for himself. The Punishers were said to be the avengers of the downtrodden, and the Field Marshal wondered if this time he would get a response as the tales said.

In his own tent, Coehoorn listened for any sign of an attack on the nilfgaardian encampment. After hearing nothing, a triumphant smirk crossed the man's face as he regarded the defiant woman's glare. Her face, smeared with her flowing makeup, still displayed that strong and undaunted look that inexplicably aroused the young commander.

"You hear that?" Coehoorn chuckled. "Neither do I. It sounds like your Punishers aren't coming to save you."

His hand reached out to yank at her beautiful red hair and grabbed her head firmly, while the other reached down to undo his belt. The woman clenched her teeth tight as she realized what was about to happen. Her eyes blazed with all the fires of hell as she looked up at him with unwavering defiance, she would not let him have his way so easily. Her courage was commendable, yet her strength laughably lacking. The Field Marshal only had to pry her jaws apart with but a firm, invading hand.

"Ah, you northern women..." Coehoorn groaned as the suffocating wetness engulfed him. He reveled in the sweet hacking sounds she made with each thrust, "Your fire just makes everything sooo...much better." He ignored her muffled squeals of protest as she beat at his stomach and thighs. "First you...then all of the North!"

* * *

Frank Castle's glare reflected the flames of the firepit blazing before him. His mind imagined all sorts of maddening and dark thoughts, the same things that kept running through his head in the silence after the battles, the kind of things that drove him to hunt down the lawless degenerates that plagued society. In the simplicity of the medieval age, the human mind was capable of so much atrocity, and Frank knew many innocent souls were suffering at that very moment he was sitting around with his students, nursing inconsequential wounds while monsters roamed free.

He was angry, angrier than before.

This was not because he could not kill more, he knew their time would come, he could kill them all later. It was because he failed in his promise to that dead king. The queen of this kingdom was dead, the royal family slaughtered in the city, and her granddaughter missing. Another reason why he hated making promises. They were always so hard to keep, something he learned the hard way.

One batch. Two batch. Penny and Dime.

"Master Castle."

Frank looked up at the Punishers who gathered around him. Though their faces were smeared with soot, dried blood and sweat, he could see they were still eager to get to work. By the time darkness filled the skies above, Lennicord's gun-carriage pulled up to the camp as they were led cautiously through the wealds outside Cintra to meet up with the rest of them. The dwarf sat at the driver's seat and leaned against the covered weapon, obscured from onlookers by a thick tarp. Their present company included many soldiers of the cintran defenders, not excluding the Temerian sorceress Triss Merigold and her coterie of surviving mages. Frank Castle was insistent on all the secrecy surrounding Lenny's inventions, and the dwarf never contested the firm restrictions placed on his discoveries.

They were at war, and right smack in the middle of it too. Although he understood Castle's wariness of these discoveries falling into the wrong hands, inwardly the dwarf wondered why ever not would the beleaguered northerners be granted such an edge against Nilfgaard?

"Master Castle." Tilera began, "What would you have us do now?"

Frank sighed deeply as he rolled the thought over and over in his head. The mission wasn't over, people still needed _punishing_. Though Cintra had fallen, the Punishers were all still very much alive, and the blood of the innocent called for action. "Sit down, all of you." The young men and women obeyed their teacher and sat in a circle around the fire. "You've all grown capable of handling things more than your age requires, and you've proven to me you are worthy of my name when you faced the black tide of Nilfgaard alongside me. For that, you have made me proud."

Triss, having fixed her injuries from the battle, arrived at the Punishers' part of the encampment to see if her skills as a healer were needed. She stopped to listen to Frank speak. Though not her first time eavesdropping on someone, she always found listening in on this particular group very interesting.

"Now, I have an important task for you. I need you to return to the keep. Gather all your friends and what you can carry with you, then destroy everything." Frank said, giving emphasis on the last part. "Leave no trace for salvage, only ash."

"It will be done, master." Tilera acknowledged, "But when we've finished, where should we meet you?"

Frank took a moment to consider all options. The girl was right in asking him the question, since Nilfgaard pretty much occupied the lands south of Cintra and their armies would soon press north. It would be difficult enough for them to travel through the south undetected, even harder when they'd double back north. They would need an rendezvous point, somewhere to rally the group before they could strike back at Nilfgaard.

Sensing his dilemma, the ever so perceptive Triss offered. "You can meet up at Siavelle."

The Punishers all turned their gaze to the sorceress, most in disapproval as they realized she had been listening in on them. Triss ignored their potent stares and continued, "The armies of the North are due to rally there as well. They may have been delayed in their aid for Cintra, but rest assured they take the threat of the nilfgaardian invasion seriously. It's just at Upper Sodden, across the River Yaruga to the north-east. You will find friends there, you will be more than welcome to join the struggle."

Frank immediately thought to decline the offer, preferring to keep the meeting place secret as was his habit, but decided against it. The Punishers weren't an army, though their strength might amount to a small version of one in terms of skill and weaponry. Striking out alone against the black tide would make their campaign against the guilty a fairly short one. But striking out when the enemy least expected, similar to their assault on Cintra, picking off companies one by one from the shadows... "You heard her. Siavelle it is then."

"And what about you, master?" Tilera asked. "What will you be doing?"

Frank turned to look at Kell, who was busy cleaning his sword underneath an old oak tree. "I'm going out to go looking for the missing princess. My search will start from the ruins of the city where we lost her, then wherever the path may take me."

The immortal glanced up at the Punisher and sighed, "What the hell are you looking at me for?"

"You're coming with me." Frank declared, and sensing the man's displeasure quickly added. "There's going to be lots and lots of nilfgaardians on the road. If I'm not mistaken, they'd take a great interest in the princess' whereabouts as much as we would."

"You sly dog." Kell groaned, dacnomania overtaking his better judgement. "Alright, can never resist the urge to kill more Black Ones."

"I'm coming with as well." The sorceress declared.

"No, you will not." Frank refused, "A bigger group attracts the most attention, you'll only slow us down."

Kell chuckled, noting Frank's ignorance to the benefits of having a mage in their little party, especially a woman. The immortal would enjoy the company, and his vast needs demanded sating. Their task too would require some decent firepower, and the sorceress proved in the battle past that she was more than capable of providing said firepower.

"Then I'll come alone." Triss insisted, "A group of three is hardly a big one."

"My friend, she's a mage." Kell said quietly to Frank, "If anyone of the three of us is the slowest, it would be you."

Frank's brow arched at this, and he sighed in exasperation. "Fine, if you're so set on coming with..." The Punisher stood up and bade the group of young Punishers to depart. "Go now, while it's still dark. Use everything I've taught you, and you'll survive." They dispersed into the night, the most opportune time to avoid the nilfgaardians sweeping for survivors. Frank and his two companions rode out to begin their search, heading first for the ruined city now flooded with the black tide.

* * *

The nilfgaardian army prepared to break camp and move out. Half of the Center Army Group stayed behind in the ruins of Cintra to secure their foothold on the North, while the other half moved to take control of the villages and towns the defeated kingdom once ruled over. Come the end of the fortnight, reinforcements would arrive to bolster their ranks and replenish their lost numbers from the last fight.

Fresh troops arrived early, however, bringing with them an elite task force carrying the Emperor's seal and voice. When they approached the Field Marshal's tent, they passed a broken siege tower sitting in the mud which doubled as the gallows where a great number of victims were hung. Among them hung the pale corpse of a young woman, her fiery red hair flowed with each passing breeze to cover her beautiful face now marred with bruises. From her mouth spilled a torrent of drying blood, gushed forth from a tongue so violently ripped from its roots.

The task force, instead of Menno Coehoorn, were met by his second-in-command, Havart var Moehoen. The Field Marshal sustained an injury during one of his leisure moments plundering the captured womenfolk of Cintra, resulting in the loss of one of his testicles, a fact lost on many as the humiliated commander preferred to keep the matter private.

"Greetings, I am Havart var Moehoen, Field Marhshal Menno Coehoorn's second. On his behalf, I apologize for my lord's absence." He said, giving the party a stiff salute before leading them into the commander's tent. There, a table had been set up by the squires with a plate of fresh fruits and bread for the guests. Moehoen's offer of wine was refused as the new arrivals insisted on proceeding with their mission, opting to take advantage of the chaos of the nilfgaardian invasion to better sniff out their quarry.

"You can skip with the pleasantries, commander." Their leader, the one who bore the Emperor's seal and voice, who introduced himself as Corvinus, spoke up. "Although congratulations should be in order, I find myself in need of vital information on your part."

"You have the Emperor's seal and voice, sir." Moehoen replied with a nod, "I am at your disposal."

"How fares the royal family of Cintra, after your seizure of the city?" The question made Moehoen squirm uncomfortably, but the commander did his very best not to show it.

"They are all dead." He explained, quickly adding upon noting the displeasure on the man's face. "They took poison or leapt from the balconies before my men could secure the keep, rather than risk capture."

"You were given strict orders to keep them alive, commander!" Corvinus said, glaring daggers into Moehoen's eyes. The man got up to leave, "That they might face the Emperor in person when he comes to inspect the annexed kingdoms! Especially the princess. Your failure would prove painful once the Emperor hears of this."

Moehoen swallowed the lump forming in his throat, imagining the headsman's axe descending upon his neck. "There is...a way to salvage this travesty, sir."

"Oh?" Corvinus turned to face the man again, "Pray tell, how could it be?"

"We have made an accounting of the remains, based on the reports of the spy we have planted in court." Moehoen offered, "And the final conclusion states that the princess had survived the slaughter- her and the royal spymaster."

"Meaning you haven't found the bodies."

"No sir, it means they have survived the slaughter." Moehoen firmly replied, holding true to the facts as they were his only lifeline. He had no intention of dying for such a trivial matter.

Corvinus allowed an amused smirk to form its way through his lips, "Very well, commander. You can keep your head." He paused to take the refused bottle of wine to pour himself a drink, "But for the deaths of the queen and her court, someone has to pay."

Moehoen arched his brow, showing a bright bead of sweat trickling past his temple. "Who did you have in mind, sir?"

Corvinus only had to wave his hand and his bodyguards turned heel and marched for Menno Coehoorn's tent. The half-naked Field Marshal was brought out screaming in agony as his wound had not yet been treated properly by the army medics. The whole army bore witness to the further humiliation brought upon their leader as Corvinus' bodyguards dragged him through the mud and threw the noose of a roughly hewn rope around his neck. "Indeed, congratulations would be in order, Havart var Moehoen."

Coehoorn kicked and struggled as the rope yanked hard against his neck. The men heaved and heaved until the man hung ten feet off the ground. Seconds passed into a full minute before the life left the commander's body, and his corpse was left to hang beside the many others he had hoisted up against the siege tower.

"You just got promoted." Corvinus joked, turning heel to begin his search for Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon.

As the man prepared to mount his horse, his eyes fell upon the hanged corpse of the redheaded woman. Though he considered himself as a rational man, Corvinus could've sworn he hadn't seen that smirk of approval on the corpse's face before. Seemingly unnerved, the man kicked his horse to a gallop and headed for the ruins of the city.

**}!{**


End file.
